Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1018: From the dirt(2)

The carriage slowed, the rhythmic clatter of iron on stone softening into a dull rumble as the wheels transitioned onto the meticulously swept volcanic flagstones of the Royal District.

Varo remained silent ; after Merelao’s words the older man had retreated into a hollow, haunted stillness. He did not look at his ward, and the younger man, for his part, seemed satisfied with the heavy silence, his gaze fixed once more on the world outside, though his lapis eyes were now as devoid of warmth as a frozen lake.

The Yarzat Royal Palace did not loom with the overbearing arrogance of the Spire of Habadia or the tall teeth of Vinnacovi, nor did it possess the sprawling, decadent decay people so unceremoniously pursued.

Merelao always believed true beauty to go further than the fairness of the body, it was something higher, the answer that a person’s soul would give to the world.

They approached the final gate. Here, there were no cheering crowds or golden-armored guards. Instead, five men stood motionless. Four of them bore no heraldry except the dual color of the Yarzat beast, the way they held their long-hafted poleaxes suggested a discipline that only the Fox could instill in the common-born.

It was on the fifth man that Merelao’s attention was drawn when the carriage groaned to a halt.

He had never met the man, nor had he any description of him. But he recognized him nonetheless from the overbearing air that went around him.What atmosphere would sorround one that drew so much fear in the heart of so many princes?

Varo finally moved, his joints creaking like an old ship. He reached out to open the door, but paused, his hand trembling on the latch. He turned to Merelao one last time, his eyes pleading for a retreat that both men knew was impossible.

Merelao didn’t even look at him. He stood up, adjusting the fall of his silken tunic with a flick of his wrist. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

He had made his choice and his bed.

"Calm yourself, old friend, and set your heart to a steady rhythm," Merelao murmured, his hand resting briefly on the latch. "Peace was never a genuine option."

He opened the door himself, stepping out with a deliberate, feline grace. His boots rang against the ancient cobblestones of the courtyard, a sharp, metallic cadence that cut through the low howl of the evening wind. Behind him, Varo and five of Merelao’s most trusted household guards followed.

Across the expanse of the courtyard, the Prince of Yarzat emerged. Alpheo descended the palace stairs with a steady, unhurried gait.

They met in the center of the white-stone plaza, two man of the South sizing each other up before a single breath was wasted on speech.

Merelao looked upon the man who had deconstructed the might of Herculia making it his own, humbled the pride of Oizen, and, most incredibly, plucked the Romelian Empire from the brink of oblivion. Alpheo, in turn, regarded the golden youth whose reputation was a patchwork of rumors and blood. He saw the spark of a volatile brilliance in Merelao’s sapphire eyes, a mirror of the desperation and ambition that had driven the man to accept a secret invitation to the Fox’s lair.

Alpheo parted his lips to deliver the customary pleasantries of the high court, but Merelao was swifter.

The younger man brought a pale hand to his chest and inclined his head in a graceful, sweeping bow. The gesture was so sudden and so profound that it left the courtyard in a vacuum of silence; Varo stood astonished, knowing his lord would have demanded a formal apology from the Gods themselves had they entered his hall uninvited, let alone bowed to them.

"Respect," Merelao began, his voice a rich, poetic chime that seemed to carry on the wind. "Truly, I offer you my unreserved respect. You were the first of our Southern blood to turn your gaze toward the arrogant Empire on our doorstep,not with a beggar’s hand, but with a savior’s sword. What a magnificent tragedy that campaign was for those who doubted you."

He straightened, his golden hair shimmering. "So tall were the walls of the Fingers, and yet, how spectacular was the crash of their falling. You are the first prince of the South to have marched so far into the North, to have bathed your steel in the storied blood of Romelia. No other sovereign of the South can claim a feat of such mythic proportions. Indeed, respect.

Merelao’s smile was thin, almost ethereal. "And respect for that brave, cunning soul of your lord who turned the Emperor’s own hubris into a funeral pyre, vanquishing a host with little more than donkeys, the screams of women, and the sounding of horns. No more in this plain he may be, but his feats shall be known.

Respect upon you once more, for being a man of such modest stature who has nevertheless cast a shadow so long it has chilled the hearts of so many thrones. Respect, indeed."

Alpheo stood motionless, momentarily caught in the wake of Merelao’s silver-tongued barrage.

Finally, the Fox’s lips curled into smile. He inclined his own head, though with less flourish and more gravity.

"You possess a poet’s tongue and a soldier’s eye, " Alpheo replied, his voice calm and gravelly. "I thank you for such generous praise; it is a rare vintage in these desperate times. I am profoundly honored that you saw fit to accept my invitation, braving the shadows of the road to stand within my walls."

He gestured toward the great cedar doors of the palace, where the warmth of the interior beckoned. "But come, let us seek a more private theater. I believe the night is too cold and the world too loud for the conversation we must have. I had hoped we might speak of our common burdens and-’’

"Stop it.’’ A voice suddendly rose ’’Do not mistake my respect for love, Prince Alpheo. Do not shroud it in the soft fabric of admiration, nor douse it in the honey of liking."

Merelao’s voice cut through Alpheo like a sudden frost. The radiant smile he had worn while narrating Alpheo’s triumphs evaporated, leaving his face as cold and unyielding as a statue in a winter garden.

"Respect is the singular, bitter reason I have deigned to scuttle through these streets like a rodent in the wainscoting. Had any lesser man issued this summons, I would have fed his letter to the fire and forgotten his name before the ink was dry. I am here to satisfy a scholar’s curiosity, to see if the ’Monster of Yarzat’ is truly a titan of the age worthy of the sage, or merely a clever weaver of shadows."

Alpheo remained motionless, his neutral gaze belying the tactical reevaluation shifting in his mind. He had prepared for a master of logic, a man with whom he could barter in the cold currency of facts and figures. Instead, he found himself facing a man of theater, a man who saw the world through the lens of tragic grandeur and unyielding personal code.

Now all that remained was to crack that code and make use of it.

"The wolf and the sheep are both fodder for the lion’s maw," Merelao continued, his voice rising. "Yet nature does not see them huddle together in a pact of convenience. Do not presume that because we share a common hunter, we share a common heart. If I am to hitch my chariot to yours, I must know that your soul is forged of more than just interests. An alliance built on the shifting sands of ’profit’ is a house I refuse to dwell in. If you seek to break bread with me only because the wind blows cold today, then you are wasting a breath I could better spend in prayer for your demise."

Alpheo adjusted his stance as he wondered if he had memorized all of that for exactly this moment; his voice meanwhile rang out. "I see now that I have misread the meter of your spirit. I apologize if my invitation felt like an insult I intended no slight to your pride. Knowing that your uncle, the Prince of Kakunia, has begun to sharpen his gaze toward you , I thought secrecy was armor I could offer you. I feared that a herald at your gate would be a death warrant in your hand. I had hoped my gift was enough to convey my thoughts..."

Merelao stopped "I thank you for the gift you sent; it shall find its use in the dark hours. But understand this: I did not come here to sign a treaty. I came here to take the measure of your person. Thruth be sacred, I find your cunning distasteful . I find it demeaning that you do not lead from the front, that you command the slaughter but refuse the stain of the sword. I am here to see if your other qualities, whatever they may be, can offset the cowardice of a master who hides behind a map."

With a flourish of his silken cloak, Merelao turned his back on the Fox and began to walk toward the palace doors. He did not look back, his stride regal and defiant. Alpheo stared at the young man’s retreating form, who was trying to enter the palace as if it were his home.

He recognised this was no longer a matter of politics or logistics; it was a labor worthy of a god. He had to capture the interest of a man who looked at the world with the eyes of a martyr and thought everyone else a distasteful sinner...