Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It didn't take long for the guards to intervene. Before the struck lord could fully rise from the ground and retaliate, three men had already stepped in, each placing firm but respectful hands on his arms and shoulders.

Even so, Alpheo noted that the man's rage wasn't abating, it was only deepening. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, his jaw clenched so tightly a vein twitched in his neck.

And the humiliation he felt was only compounded by the imbalance of treatment. While he was being held back by three armed men, Egil, the cause of the trouble, stood behind a single guard,one who looked more like a chaperone than an enforcer, his hand lightly resting on Egil's chest as if trying to soothe a drunken brother rather than restrain a belligerent lord.

Egil, for his part, didn't appear bothered in the slightest.

A low murmur began to spread through the pavilion like a wave, and before long, a small crowd had gathered, nobles and soldiers alike craning their necks over shoulders and goblets to catch a glimpse of the unfolding scene.

Then the crowd parted like a curtain, and Alpheo arrived.

His gait was calm, almost lazy, but his eyes moved quickly between the men. He looked first at the Herculeian noble, then at the guards, and finally, with little surprise, landed on Egil.

"What's going on here?" Alpheo asked evenly, his tone lacking any real curiosity. He already suspected the answer.

Storvium, whose name Shahab promptly whispered into the prince's ear, straightened as much as the guards would allow, his voice pitched with frustration and a touch of wounded pride.

"Your Grace, this brute insulted my family and then struck me without provocation. In your presence. In the middle of your peace feast!"

Alpheo raised an eyebrow. He turned to Egil, who was swaying slightly and smelled of wine , though he seemed more lucid now that consequences were on the table.

"I did no such thing," Egil said, a hand lazily gesturing as though recounting a tale by firelight. "The good lord here was worried for his dear nephew, who followed the dog's middle son in battle with the cavalry . I told him the truth: we've not found the body, which likely means he ran off with him on gods-know-where." He gave a crooked smile. "The prince's boy is quite spirited, after all."

Alpheo's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

Egil continued. "And how did the good lord respond to my honesty? He threw his wine in my face! And so I returned the favor, with my fist."

Storvium hissed through his teeth. "You mock my nephew's honor and then paint yourself as the aggrieved party?"

"I don't mock the dead," Egil replied coolly. "But I sure as hell do not weep for the cowardly. So since he is not dead, what is he?"

The Herculeian lord surged forward, but the guards held him fast. "He would never have run from the likes of you."

Egil took a single step forward, just enough to shorten the distance. His voice dropped a pitch, and it was no longer theatrical.

"Then if that's the case, he's dead. Congratulations and Sorry for your loss.Still, I'd wager he died at the hands of a man like me, as you have said, a brute."

Gasps sounded from nearby lords. The air was turning volatile, and the tension was close to snapping, with either of the two men taking out their daggers and lunging at each other's throats.

But it was Alpheo who cut through it. His voice was soft, yet it silenced the murmurs.

"I think," he said, glancing between the two men, "that the wine is speaking a little louder than either of you right now."

He took a step forward, folding his hands behind his back, voice growing firmer.

"For the sake of the evening , I suggest you both continue your feast... in separate corners of the tent."

"Your Grace," Storvium began, eyes glinting with protest, "he struck me in front of nobles, servants, and guards. And he insulted my brother's eldest son, who may have perished, by calling him a coward."

Alpheo tilted his head, just slightly.

"Are you challenging him to a duel?" he asked simply.

The question, asked in such plain terms, seemed to strike Storvium harder than Egil's punch.

"Because," Alpheo went on, "you'd be well within your rights to do so. But you should know, as you surely do, that he would have the right to choose the conditions of the duel. And I've yet to find a man who can best him on horseback. Not one.

So if you do wish to brighten the evening with blood and splinters, only to darken it with a funeral, then by all means, issue the challenge."

Alpheo let the silence stretch.

"But if not," he said at last, "then I suggest we all drink another cup, put a rock over the past few minutes, and return to what this night is supposed to be: a celebration. I most certainly apologise for the easiness in the hands of my dear friend, but I would certainly ask for us to raise cups in cheer instead of swords in duels.

This is after all a day to celebrate , isn't it?"

Storvium's lips tightened. His nostrils flared. He looked at Egil, who smiled at him with the smugness of a man who knew he'd won, and then at the prince, whose stare gave him no ground.

He took the exit.

"As you command, Your Grace," he said tightly.

Seeing the matter over the crowd began to disperse, and the musicians, sensing the storm had passed, slowly resumed their playing. Alpheo gave Egil a brief look, equal parts warning and amusement, and turned back toward the head table without another word.

Behind him, his blonde friend chuckled to himself, wiped his knuckles with a napkin,

"Ah," Egil muttered, swaggering up to Alpheo with wine on his breath and satisfaction in his voice. "The fucker got cold feet. You saw it. Folded like a bad hand."

Alpheo didn't even look at him. He simply lifted his goblet, took a slow sip, then spoke with the calm, regal tone of a man issuing a casual command that might still end with someone getting strangled behind a tent.

"Lord Jarza," he said, his voice cutting neatly through the music and laughter with a strange formalit in it . "I believe Lord Egil is due for a change of clothes... and a bath. Would you be so kind as to escort him?"

Jarza, who'd been lurking nearby with the patient amusement of a man waiting for the punchline, stepped forward immediately.

Egil blinked, glancing down at his shirt, now blotched red from spilled wine and a bit of someone else's blood. "Well, I suppose a change wouldn't hurt," he mumbled, patting at the stain. "Bit of a mess here. Bit of color, really.I'll be back in half an our top, get me some quails egg , if you could please..."

Alpheo leaned in slightly, just enough that only Jarza heard the whisper."Use cold water. And make sure he's out for the rest of the evening."

Jarza gave a subtle, toothy grin and nodded once. "With pleasure, Your Grace."

Before Egil could blink, Jarza had taken him gently—but firmly—by the collar, as though herding a particularly unruly dog out of a nobleman's foyer.

"Wait, wait—what do you mean out for the evening?" Egil protested as he was tugged along, having clearly heard what his friend had said , his boots scuffing against the tent floor.

And with that, the tent flaps parted, and Egil was unceremoniously hauled out into the night.

"I would really love," Alpheo muttered as he dropped into his seat, eyes following Jarza dragging Egil into the night, "just one evening where I don't have to clean up that man's mess."

Asag , seated nearby with a half-eaten leg of lamb in hand, raised an eyebrow and glanced over. "Thought you took his side."

Alpheo reached for a bowl, selecting a boiled egg with all the ceremony of a man choosing between poisons. "I did," he replied flatly, popping the egg into his mouth and speaking through a half-chew. "Egil is one of my best generals. On the other hand, Lord Storvium is a pompous ass whose prince I personally made crawl on all fours to kiss my ring. It doesn't take much math to figure out whose side I'd take."

He swallowed, then leaned back, wine goblet in hand, eyes dark and calm like a still sea.

"That said," he continued, "just because you side with a man doesn't mean you can't punish him. Publicly, you show unity. Privately, you deal with the chaos. And by the Gods, would I love if he were less brawny and wouldn't give any more reasons for lords to gain ire against him.

It is becoming harder by the day to manage him."

Asag gave a soft hum of acknowledgment, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "So... what now? I don't suppose you're dragging us into another war right away?"

Alpheo gave him a look, a long, tired one, as if someone had just asked whether the sun might rise tomorrow and he tired had to answer.

"You, my dear friend," he said, voice dry as wine left too long in the sun, "can expect a few years of peace. I, on the other hand, can expect the most grinding, backbreaking work of my life."

Asag blinked. "That's not fair. We can help, you know, you ain't got to carry it alone."

Alpheo turned slowly, staring at him with the quiet weight of someone deciding whether to mock or educate. "Can you now?" he asked, as if genuinely curious. "Can you help me divide the conquered lands into manageable districts, which will demand an increase in bureaucracy? Can you handle the census of the hamlet and forgotten villages tucked behind hills? Can you administer the integration of Herculia's new nobility by making deals with our local one to marry them?"

Asag's lips slowly folded inward, his face tightening into a grimace. He nodded faintly, then cleared his throat. "I retract my statement."

Alpheo chuckled, a low sound, genuine and weary. "Indeed, you do.Trust me I am doing you a favor''

He took another sip of wine, then gestured broadly toward the men still drinking and toasting, laughter ringing across the tent. "You'll still have work, don't worry. Last thing I would want to see would be you lounging around while I sweat my life away in paperwork.

You and the others will have your share of logistics, bandit cleansing in the new lands, and the eternal joy of listening to noblemen trying to get their sons and nephews inside our machine of war.

But for the most part…"

He fixed Asag with a faint smirk. "You'll just need to make sure that your legions' discipline doesn't collapse into drunken hell before I'm finished building a state.We will be needing them by the end"

Asag raised his cup, sighing. "To the real war, then."

Alpheo clinked his goblet against his. "To paperwork, and peace."