Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1015: New plans(5)

He watched in a profound silence as the Prince of Oizen fell victim to the ghosts of his own making. For Zayneth Sorza was an open book written in large, frantic script, a man drowning in the theater of his own delusions.

It was a stroke of divine luck, the envoy mused, that such a vacuum of leadership occupied a throne that, in the hands of a more capable architect, would have been a big thorn in Habadia’s side.

Oizen was a principality blessed by the gods and armored by the earth itself. Its borders were a lover’s kiss in natural defense: the Zauern River, wide and treacherous, acted as a liquid wall that denied the Kakunian army any entry that was not already choked by a fortified crossing.

Beneath that soil lay the Malshut mines, veins of iron that blessed that soil, protected by the earth, with great riches. Sorza’s father had used that wealth to clothe three hundred elite footmen, and with the coin harvested from selling that iron to their neighbors, Oizen should have possessed a treasury that never felt the winter of debt. They had the grain of the lowlands to feed a nation and the muscle to bully the smaller states into perpetual, sniveling dependency.

That should have been the end of Yarzat.

By all rights of geography and resource, Oizen was set upon the high road to rivaling the Spire of Habadia itself. Such a time had even come close when Oizen had invaded Kakunia.

But where the gods gave a gift, they also balanced it with a curse. The curse of Oizen was the ineptitude of the man who wore its crown. Sorza was a merchant of grievances, not a man of men, burning the ambitious dream that had all the pillars to stand on.

Yet, even this curse carried a double edge; for atop the ruins of Oizen’s potential sat the terrifying, vertical ascent of Yarzat. The "Fox" was building exactly what Sorza was squandering, a centralized, iron-willed power that threatened to eclipse them all.

Zayneth’s gaze shifted from the dreaming prince to the bastard boy, Soria. The boy was watching Sorza with a look that wasn’t just contempt but pure loathing...he would have to teach him the importance of keeping one’s feelings inside...especially on this line of work.

Even he did not like the man, but he certainly knew how to keep a mannered exterior to hide that.

Anyway, the game was no longer about saving Oizen from Yarzat. It was about using Oizen as a sacrificial lamb to break the Fox, ensuring that when the smoke cleared, the only spire left standing would be the one in Habadia.

Now, the only task that remained was to set the pieces to what came after that, Nibadur after all, did not come armed exclusively with generosity in his heart.

But Sorza, unaware of it, kept on praising his savior.

"Truly, we have no firmer anchor than Habadia. You have sailed to our side time and again when the tide turned against us."

Indeed we have, Zayneth thought, a shadow of a smirk dancing behind his eyes as he realised they were about to reap the benefits.

"It is our supreme honor to shield a friend from the gale," Zayneth replied, his voice a velvet purr. "Just as the unified South stood as your vanguard three years ago during the conference, so shall the world muster its strength now to check the unbridled avarice of your neighbor. Even as we speak, the Peasant Prince sharpens his blades, dreaming of an Oizen reduced to a mere province. We do not intend to let that dream take root."

Sorza nodded with a rhythmic, almost childlike fervor. "It is only proof to the wisdom of the Southern Princes. They see the smoke on the horizon before the fire even reaches the border. To think that a man of such low pedigree could illegitimately seize a crown to which he has no blood-right... it is a grotesque travesty against the divine line of Herculia and the just order of things! If he is permitted to swallow a princedom he has no claim to, who can say what further perversions this dog will unleash upon the world if given the power to?"

"It is an old truth, Your Grace," Zayneth said, leaning in to feed the Prince’s mounting vitriol, "that to educate a hound, one must use the rod. If left unpunished, they soon forget the distance between the master’s table and the floor."

"Tell me then," Sorza pressed, his voice rising with a hungry energy to know more. "What provisions must I strike? How many thousands shall march to excise this Yarzat tumor? I must know the scale of the storm we are to unleash so that I may prepare to receive it well...."

He needed the numbers not just for the logistics of grain , but to silence the cold, whispering doubt in his gut that Alpheo, the man who had redefined the impossible, might still find a way to tip the board.

"To provide a census of the wrath your enemy shall face upon this evening would be futile, Your Grace," Zayneth whispered, his tone as soothing as a melody. "But I believe it is enough for your heart to be still in the knowledge that the beast of Yarzat shall be besieged by the fury of five thrones."

"Five!"

Sorza felt the world tilt. He gripped the edge of the oak table, his knuckles turning a ghostly white, anchoring himself against the sheer magnitude of the revelation.

He had expected Habadia. He had hoped for Kakunia. But five thrones? Not since the Romelian legions crossed the borders ago had the South stood with such singular, terrifying unity. Back then, even against the greatest empire of the age, only four princes had joined hands to cast the foreigners out.

Was the Fox of Yarzat truly more dangerous than the Romelian war-machine? Was Alpheo so great a threat that he had accomplished what a century of diplomacy could not?

A slow, euphoric smile spread across Sorza’s face as Zayneth leaned forward to cast the final brand upon the pyre. That had indeed melted away any doubt Sorza might have festered in his heart.

"What can a peasant hope to do against such reckless numbers?" Zayneth mused, the candlelight reflecting his pleased expression. "Five armies, from five sovereigns, converging upon a single, solitary throat. Alpheo fancies himself a master of the gamble, a man who plays with the stars themselves. But he has never played against a House that owns the table, the dice, and the room. We shall see how his luck holds when the world comes to collect its debt."

"How did such a miraculous union come to be?" Sorza asked, his voice breathless, dazed by the sheer scale of the shadow falling over his enemy. In his euphoria, he did not even pause to wonder why he, a supposed sovereign partner, had been kept in the dark until this very moment.

"His Grace, Prince Nibadur, has spared neither effort nor the royal treasury to weave this thread," Zayneth replied, his voice a smooth, low-pitched chime. "He even offered the hand of his most prized daughter in marriage to bind the furthest throne to our cause. Countless promises were whispered, and gifts of immense value were extended to ensure the ring was closed. As I have stated, the plights of Oizen are the heartaches of Habadia. My liege recognizes the Legions of Yarzat for the apex predators they are; he believes such extraordinary precautions are not merely wise, but existential."

"Indeed, his wisdom is a beacon!" Sorza cried, his eyes alight with a feverish glow. "One can only shudder to imagine the monstrous shape the Peasant of Yarzat would take if he were not properly checked and broken! The Herculians learned that bitter lesson in blood; I feared the gods intended the same for us. It was only through the communal strength of the Southern Princes that Alpheo’s initial greed was blunted. But blunting the blade is not enough, the hand that wields it must be severed!"

"And we shall perform that cut with gladness, Your Grace," Zayneth said, his tone as cool and sharp as a the lancer of a knight on a joust. "We shall descend upon his host, extinguish the flame of his ambition, and ensure that a stable, enduring peace is restored to the south. We shall begin by carving away the illegitimate holdings of Yarzat, ensuring the ancient Crown of Herculia is resurrected from the ash."

"Just as it will be with the lands unjustly torn from my borders, and the restoration of my silver-veined mines," Sorza declared, closing his eyes in a moment of rapturous anticipation. He nodded to himself, entirely missing the subtle, serpentine flicker in Zayneth’s expression at the mention of the Malshut mines. Habadia had its own designs for that iron, plans that did not involve returning it to the hands of a man who had already proven he could not defend it.

After all not all the payments they promised came from Habadian hands...but that was a matter for another time...

Zayneth allowed the silence to linger. Some truths would sour the Prince’s joy, but for the sake of his current compliance, Zayneth kept the darker details of the post-war remuneration hidden behind his teeth.

However, there was a more immediate price to be paid, one that could not be deferred.

"Your Grace’s enthusiasm is the very fuel of this coalition," Zayneth said, his smile turning thin and professional once more. "But, as the old architects say, a tower as high as the one we are building requires a foundation of absolute certainty. To bring five thrones into the field is a feat of titanic proportions, and such a thing requires... help? There are certain provisions, certain commitments , that Habadia must require of Oizen to ensure this alliance does not falter when the first arrow flies."

He paused, his eyes locking onto Sorza’s ’’I believe it would be time to talk about that?"

After all, if one likes sausage, then he should very well stomach seeing how it’s made...