Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 667: The road forward(3)

With Herculia teetering on the edge, I can already feel the shift into my hands. The city is more than a bastion of stone and banners—it is the heart of the Herculeian state. And hearts, when pierced, tend to bleed profusely.

Once it falls, everything else becomes a matter of time and patience.

The road to full annexation lies open. I’ll carve up the remains of the old order piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left but my flag and my law in every square. With the capital under my banner, who among the outlying cities will dare resist?

The supplies I’ve gathered and that are still present will be enough to mount a fresh offensive.

What’s left is a single push. One more breach, to bring this rotten jewel crashing down.

And once it does, Yarzat becomes the new center of gravity.

That part will take finesse.

It’ll take a few years of peace, a careful reshuffling of titles and boundaries.

But I’ll manage.

Especially now that my web of agents is finally bearing fruit. I have tools now I didn’t have when I first got the throne .

And yet...

I can’t keep micromanaging it all. The web has grown thick—too thick for one man to spin forever. I’ll need hands.

Still, those were problems for the future; as for now, he was busy preparing for his enemy’s surrender.

A slight smile played at his lips as he studied the boy.

He sat straight, a mask of courtesy and steel barely holding back whatever anxieties must’ve been clawing at his gut.

Thalien shifted in his seat—just slightly, like a swordsman adjusting his footing before a feint.

"Well, Your Grace," he began, polite as a court poet, "I can see you’re not a man of many words, but action. That’s something to admire, truly—we are likely proof enough of that."

The last part was said more quietly than the rest

"Though I hope you won’t take offense if I offer a small correction. There may be a misunderstanding at play... ’’ he said in a sweet tone as he continued, "The garrison is not seeking to surrender."

That caught Alpheo’s attention, with of course, doubts about the veracity of the statement.

"They believe the prince is coming," the boy continued. " This is not a flag of surrender coming from them , it is a proposal from me . An attempt to see if an agreement can be reached before more blood is spilled, especially considering the risk I am incurring."

"And what exactly," he asked, leaning slightly forward, "should I make of this proposal?

"I believe you’ll recognize the value I represent. If I can help bring the city under your control with minimal damage, that’s worth something, isn’t it?"

Then came the true purpose of his visit.

"I would like a lordship, Your Grace. A title. For the service I offer you tonight."

It took effort for Alpheo to hide his amusement.

He wants to betray his own? And be rewarded for it?

From the reports he’d gathered, his father barely acknowledged him. A third son with little favor, so the proposal coming from him made sense; he had no future after all with his family, so binding himself to the likely winner was more than a sensible choice.

Either way, I can use this, he then realized.

Granting a single title—especially in a realm he’ll soon own in full—would cost him nothing. A castle? A few thousand acres?What are those compared to doubling the entire state’s lands?And conquering a whole princedom?

If he delivers me Herculia without another drop of blood spilled, he’ll be worth every stone I hand over.

Still, he showed no eagerness, as he wanted to see how heavy the fish weighed as he cast the bait.

He gave him a slow, almost lazy smile as he tried to appear uninterested.

"A lordship is no small thing," he said softly, "Especially when it’s bought with treason and silvered tongue. I am sure many of my nobles would doubt me if I were to agree to such dishonorable offer.

Of course he didn’t give a shit about what the lords thought, but it certainly didn’t hurt to do some lip service.

’’What makes you think you’re worth it?I do not know how much of what you said is true; as far as I can see, the city will fall with or without your gracious intervention. The real question is if you are really worth the trouble?"

Thalien didn’t flinch.

"Your Grace," he began, voice measured, eyes clear, "I believe tying my name to your cause will do more damage to your enemies than if you were to bring the city down by yourself."

Alpheo said nothing as he allowed Thalien to continue.

"I may be a third son, but I still carry the blood of the royal house. You may or may not know this, but the nobility’s faith in Lechlian is hanging by a thread.

His decisions have alienated more lords than I can count. If they see his own son bow to the so-called Peasant Prince—" he let the title hang in the air with an apologetic tone "—they’ll see it as a verdict. A condemnation from within. The final nail for those already halfway out the door.

After all, if the royal family itself is fractured, what does it tell about the state of the country?Especially in such trying times..."

Thalien leaned forward slightly, his tone growing colder, more incisive.

"Sometimes, all it takes is a single rotten apple to fall for a man to chop down the entire tree, convinced it bears nothing but poison."

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

"I can be that apple, Your Grace. And every banner I draw to your side will be one ripped from my father’s. Just imagine the sorrow in his face as he realizes his nobles chose you over him.

Wouldn’t that be a sight? I can make that happen for you..."

Alpheo’s expression remained unreadable as Thalien extended his offer. He did not nod. He did not scoff. He simply watched, the firelight flickering in his eyes like a storm behind still waters.

The silence stretched.

And the longer it held, the more Thalien’s practiced calm began to crack. His fingers fidgeted slightly on the edge of his cup. His gaze darted once toward the canvas walls of the tent, as if the silence were pressing in.

Alpheo waited just long enough for the tension to become audible in the boy’s breathing—then finally, he broke it.

"I’ll consider it," he said flatly, tilting his head ever so slightly. "In the meantime... what terms would you suggest I offer your countrymen to convince them to throw down their arms?"

The relief was immediate, though slight. Thalien exhaled quietly, rolling his shoulders back before answering.

"Of course, Your Grace," he said, regaining some of his composure. "The garrison won’t lay down arms for promises of survival alone. Many are defending their homes, not their lord. To them, surrender means ruin. But if you were to offer to spare the city from a sack—"

"Absolutely not," Alpheo cut in, with a tone that left no space for rebuttal. "My army has been anchored here for two months. Two months of rain and hunger. You really think they’ll walk into the city with empty hands, after all that?"

He rose from his seat slowly, circling behind his chair like a lion pacing the edge of a cage.

"I have lords who backed this war, expecting gold. I myself expect gold. Herculia is full of it , I am sure . And you want me to toss that promise away?" He tilted his head with a mocking arch of his brow. "For what? Your charming smile and easy laugh?"

The refusal was absolute, and for a moment, the silence returned, heavier now.

Yet Thalien did not shrink. If anything, he seemed... prepared.

"Then perhaps," he said, more carefully now, "we find a middle path."

He straightened his back once more, his voice calm as if unbothered by the refusal.

"Offer them their lives, Your Grace. Their freedom. And limit the damage. Let the sack be controlled. Give your men something to plunder, and leave the common folk standing."

A pause.

Seems like he never expected me to accept.

"Very well, I am able to show some degree of mercy..." Alpheo said at last, his tone as casual as if they were bartering over horses instead of lives. "When the gates fall, the populace will be assembled outside the walls. There will be no fires, no looting of homes, and no harm to women."

His words were clipped, controlled, like a man forcing himself to speak through gritted teeth.

"The garrison may leave, unharmed, if they wish. Lords and knights within the city may pass freely—but only if they swear, under oath in the Gods’ name, never to raise arms against me again for this year."

He paused a moment, watching Thalien for a reaction.

"Merciful terms," Thalien said, inclining his head with what might have been sincere respect—or something more rehearsed. "I’ll make sure the city knows what clemency you offer. It will make surrender far more appealing."

Alpheo gave a slow nod, already turning away. The conversation had served its purpose.

"Then we are finished." His voice carried a finality that left no room for discussion.

He gestured to the nearest servant.

"Have the black stallion brought from the northern pens. Saddled, groomed, and gifted to our guest."

The order was clear, his meaning even more so.

Hospitality had been offered, negotiations conducted, and now, with a gift exchanged, the laws of guest-right concluded.

Alpheo rose from his seat, the tension in his shoulders easing. He could already see the shape of victory forming in his mind. The city would fall soon. The nobles would scatter like frightened pigeons. And Thalien, that dear boy had handed him the blade to cut Herculia at the root.

Perhapse it would not be bad to have someone like him under me

He allowed himself the faintest hint of satisfaction as he turned—

—and froze.

Because just then, as if plucked from the depths of hubris to remind him not to smile too early, Thalien opened his mouth again.

And the words that followed were not that of a simple farewell.