Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 663: Ends of game(3)

"It is my fault," Cretio muttered with a low growl, the weight of frustration heavy in his voice, "to have ever lent my ears to your nonsense in the first place."

His glare, sharp as a drawn dagger, was aimed squarely at Thalien, who remained unshaken—lounging with the same casual elegance one might expect from a poet mid-recital rather than a noble amidst the collapse of a besieged city.

Thalien’s eyebrows lifted in mock offense, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.

"Not being taken seriously?" he said, his tone brimming with irony, "My lord, do I strike you as a jester? Am I painted up like a mummer prancing about in a traveling troupe? If so, then I must be the best-dressed fool in Herculia."

Cretio exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. The throbbing in his skull had returned. "Let’s cast aside, just for a moment," he began, voice dry as autumn leaves, "the utter madness of what you’re proposing. Even if I were to entertain this fever dream of yours, have you thought about what it entails?"

He leaned back, eyes dark and hollow. "To pass between those siege lines... you would need to scale not one, but two barricaded walls, each crawling with more patrols than fleas on a dog’s back. Add to that the enemy scouts roaming the plains, the Peasant Prince’s Hounds’ riders and you’ve got yourself a gauntlet fit for myth."

Cretio turned away, looking toward the shuttered window, as if trying to glimpse the stars beneath all the smoke.

"You’d save us time if you just rode out and surrendered yourself. At least then, we wouldn’t have to clean your remains off the ramparts.Still why in all hells would it have to be you and not some other men in my service?"

"Because, dear uncle," Thalien began, tapping his nose with the flair of a street conjurer revealing the trick behind the trick, "proceeding from the very theory we both now find more than plausible, that my father believes the city has fallen, what we need is not merely a message."

He paused, letting the thought steep.

"We need proof. We need someone whose word cannot be cast aside like a rumor in the wind. If we send a nameless rider, he might be mistaken for a spy . The Peasant Prince is a cunning bastard, and my father would rightly suspect deception, believing the man to be in the enemy’s service . A trap. That is the Mud Prince’s way of style after all..."

He tilted his head, his voice lowering with gravity.

"But if I appear before him? His son? His own blood?"

A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth.

"Then he cannot deny it. My presence alone will prove the city still stands, that the fight is not yet lost. And more importantly—he will have no excuse to abandon us again in front of his lords. Not with his son standing before him and the truth plain as daylight begging for his help, and shaming him for his cowardice."

"Seems like you’ve got it all figured out," Cretio remarked, arms crossed, his voice cool and tinged with something between skepticism and dry amusement. "A regular hero’s plan, isn’t it? Clever schemes, noble intent, poetic timing..."

He paced slowly across the chamber, the sound of his boots echoing faintly over the old stone floor. "Except," he added sharply, turning to face Thalien, "that your grand little expedition ends with you hanging by your thumbs in the Peasant Prince’s camp , paraded as a trophy, or worse, held hostage against your father’s."

Thalien didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his goblet between his fingers, smiling as if he were being teased rather than accused of impending capture and death.

"Hostage?" he said, his voice laced with the bitterest kind of humor. "You truly believe my father would so much as raise a brow if the peasant sent him my head in a sack? The man wouldn’t lift a finger for me unless I turned into a cask of wine—or perhaps a warhorse. Gods know he’d mourn the horse more."

He sat forward then, resting his elbows on the table. The half-playful smirk lingered, but behind his eyes, something sharper flickered. Determination.

"But let’s not pretend this is all suicidal bluster. I’m not just planning to walk into the lion’s den with a flower in my hair." He tapped his fingers against the wood in rhythm with his thoughts. "This city, for all its present misery, was once the jewel of the principality. Seat of power for my family for over one hundred years. You really think some musty old place like this wouldn’t have at least one trick left under its stones?"

Cretio straightened slightly, curiosity pricking his previously ironclad doubt.

"There’s an underground route," Thalien continued, lowering his voice just slightly, as though sharing a secret with the bricks themselves. "A hidden passage—dug deep beneath the city, used by my great-grandfather during the last time these walls were breached. Long, winding, and lost to most maps."

"And it leads where?" Cretio asked, his tone shifting, the edges of mockery now dulled by cautious intrigue.

Thalien shrugged. "That’s the exciting part," he said. "Never followed it to the end. I’ve never walked it myself. But if our hopes are true, it should stretch beyond the city’s boundary. Hopefully... beyond the siege lines."

Cretio narrowed his eyes. "And if it doesn’t? What if it ends before the enemy’s wall?"

"Then," Thalien said with a grin that seemed far too relaxed for a man planning to crawl beneath a city and sneak through enemy lines, "I’ll rely on my lucky star.It isn’t like we have much choice now , do we?"

He raised his cup again, toasting the very idea of chance.

"I’ll disguise myself. If I can pass as one of the Peasant Prince’s men, it’ll give me just enough time to climb their wall by rope, cut it behind me, and vanish into the night before anyone notices."

"You make it sound like a tale," Cretio said, voice caught between disbelief and awe.

"It will be," Thalien replied, eyes gleaming, "if I survive. If not it will be a fool’s gambit"

Cretio remained silent for a moment, the thoughts racing in his head stirring behind his stern expression. Then, with a sudden breath, he gazed at the boy

"Well?" he asked, his voice low but firm, the weight of command creeping back into it. "What in the hells are you still doing here, then? If you’re to leave—go."

Thalien, who had just begun to refill his goblet, paused with the bottle mid-air. He gave a small, amused snort and set the wine aside.

"I appreciate the dramatic send-off," he said, adjusting the collar of his tunic, "but I’m not exactly leaving this instant."

Cretio raised a brow. "Why? What are you waiting for?"

Thalien gestured loosely toward the window.

"Nightfall," he said simply. "Darkness is the only proper cloak for fools and desperate men. If the passage leads me too close to the enemy’s outer wall, I’ll need to blend in long enough to avoid their notice. My plan, such as it is, requires me to pass for one of them—at least for a while."

He turned and paced slowly across the room, eyes scanning the ground as though visualizing every step to come. "The watch changes before dawn. That’s when they’re groggy, distracted—thinking more of warm bread and milk, rather than checking every familiar face under their command."

"And that’s when you’ll make your move?" Cretio asked, arms crossed.

Thalien nodded. "Right in the middle of their morning meal, when minds are elsewhere. I’ll slip away and pray to every god above that no one notices I’ve gone until I’m long past their outer patrols."

Cretio leaned against the table, exhaling through his nose. "You’re mad to attempt this without a horse," he muttered. "Even if you do get past the walls, you’ll have leagues of ground to cover on foot. Bare terrain. Open fields. You’ll be spotted, or dead from exhaustion before you’re even halfway to the army."

Thalien turned back toward him, smile returning, this time thinner, quieter—but no less sure.

"Then I suppose I’ll just have to take my chances."

There was no arrogance in his tone now, no performance. Just a calm acceptance, the kind that belongs to men who understand their odds and choose to bet anyway.

Cretio looked at him long and hard. Then, with a slight shake of his head and the ghost of a bitter chuckle, he muttered:

"Gods help you, Then. Because nothing else will."

Thalien gave a slow stretch of his arms and tilted his head toward the untouched goblet in front of Cretio. His grin returned—wide, wily, and just a bit too self-satisfied.

"So," he said with an arched brow, "do we finally raise that cheer now? Or shall I just drink to myself and my upcoming death?"

Cretio stared at him for a beat too long, the silence growing like a creeping vine. Then, at last, he let out a tired grunt that could have been laughter if not for the bitterness behind it. He reached for the goblet and gave it a reluctant swirl, the crimson wine catching his eye like blood in a chalice.

"To fools and madmen," he muttered.

Thalien lifted his cup with a mock flourish, as if toasting at a royal banquet rather than in a crumbling chamber above a besieged city.

"And may the gods favor both if they loves me," he replied, clinking his cup lightly against Cretio’s before tipping it back and draining the contents in one practiced motion.

Cretio sipped more slowly, savoring the wine if only because he knew there was little enough worth savoring these days. It was good—shockingly good—and he cast a brief glance at the bottle, wondering how the boy had come across such a vintage in times like these.

Thalien noticed, of course. He always did.

"It’s the good stuff," he said with a wink, rising from his chair and giving his limbs a quick stretch. "And no, I’m not taking it with me. Consider it a gift. You’ll need it more than I will if this all goes to the piss."

He tapped the top of the urn lightly with two fingers, then turned toward the door, still whistling under his breath. As he stepped out, he called back over his shoulder:

"I’ll go make ready. Get a bit of rest if you can. The world might be burning, but it’s always best to face the flames on a full stomach and with an empty bladder."

And then he was gone, leaving behind only the soft echo of his boots on the stone floor and that ever-present air of absurd cheer that the boy always brought with him.

Cretio sat still for a long moment, staring at the half-empty cup in his hand, then at the bottle now sitting alone between them. He reached out and poured another measure.

"So this is what we’ve come to," he muttered, his voice low and tired. "Our last hope lies with a smiling drunk and a tunnel no one’s seen in years."

Still, he drank again—slower this time.

Because hope, however foolish, was better than the silence.