Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 672: Casting the bait

Eighty-five thousand silverii.

That was the final toll sent in by the quartermasters.

Of that staggering sum, a full forty thousand would find its way into Alpheo’s coffers , claimed not just as spoils of war, but as the rightful prize of conquest,including of course all the decoration taken from the Herculeian court soon to adorn his.

Twenty thousand more were set aside for the men each soldier promised roughly eight silverii as a reward for their part in the siege.

A fair share by any reckoning, though Alpheo had wisely decreed that the bulk of it would not be paid until the campaign’s end. He knew well the dangers of silver burning too brightly in a man’s purse, it was a weight that often carried feet far from discipline and into the arms of desertion.

Still, not even a prince could parade mountains of treasure past bloodied soldiers and expect to keep their hands entirely empty. A modest sum had been issued to each man in the days following the sack, just enough to keep spirits high and blades loyal.

And yet, unlike past victories, the usual outlets for a soldier’s coin had changed.

Normally, such a windfall would have vanished in a night, lost to taverns, spilled into cups of sour wine, or slipped down the bodices of brothel girls with painted smiles and nimble fingers.

But this wasn’t Yarzat . This was a half-ruined city , still licking its wounds from conquest. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

The wine, at least, was provided. Alpheo himself had seen to that—casks of the prince’s vintage rolled out into the squares on the night following the sack, given freely in celebration. Firepits burned, meat was roasted, drums were beaten, and songs were sung with the kind of drunken joy that only victory could grant.

As for the pleasures of the flesh? Those were free, for better or worse. No one dared charge coin from men who had taken the city . Who, after all, would ask a price from the victorious? To do so would be to invite wrath with a smile, and the brothel’s owners , having seen the banners fall, were in no mood to gamble with the temper of conquerors.

And so the soldiers kept their silver, for once, not emptied in a single night, but clinking in their satchels and purses.

The months leading up to this day had been unusually calm. For once, Alpheo had no battles to win, no urgent commands to issue, no fires to put out. It was a rare, golden stretch of idleness.

Days spent lounging in shadowed halls, nursing wine, drafting vague plans for future conquest, and watching the dust settle over Herculia like a final benediction.

But with the sudden swelling of his treasury, so too came a tide of burdens.

Order had to be imposed. Silver did not organize itself, nor did it leap into the right hands without guidance. Careful decisions had to be made: how much to distribute to the quartermasters of the White Army, how much to retain for future campaigns, and how much to be sealed in the vaults of what had once been Lechlian’s court, and that now was his.

Thankfully, he was not alone in the drudgery. Jarza, reliable as a warhorse, had shouldered much of the burden without complaint. Having delegated his martial duties to capable hands, Edric, chiefly, who now ran drills and forged noble levies into something resembling real soldiers, Jarza had turned his mind to figures, tallies, and ink-stained scrolls.

They had a month with nothing to do but wait so it was better to make use of it.

With a sigh heavy enough to tilt the heavens, Alpheo set down his quill, its tip stained black with ink and boredom.

He cast a weary glance over the sheet before him, an order authorizing the purchase of grain from the flood of merchants that had descended upon the conquered city like crows on carrion. They came not only from Yarzat, but also from the Empire, their caravans fat with goods and eager to profit from the fall of Herculia.

Especially the grain merchants. They had long since discovered that the southern crown had a bottomless hunger for grain, and they were only too happy to feed it.

Alpheo leaned back, rubbing the ink from his fingers. "Thanks for the help," he said absently, reminding himself to show appreciation before the day slipped too far into tedium.

Jarza gave a faint chuckle, placing his own quill in the inkwell like a spear driven into wet earth.

"It wouldn’t be proper to let a prince drown in parchment and accounts. Besides, better to suffer through it together."

Alpheo gave a dry grunt of agreement, already suspecting the man’s next words.

Jarza’s massive shoulders shifted, and his thick neck turned until his sharp eyes fixed fully on the prince. "And since you were the first to speak," he continued smoothly, "I trust you’ll indulge a few questions of mine. Tactical ones."

Alpheo raised a brow. "Very well. I suppose a little intrigue will do me more good than these ledgers. You know better than anyone how much I like conversing with you."

"Excellent," Jarza said with a slight smirk, the kind that always preceded a scalpel-sharp point. "Let’s begin, then. Tell me, do you not think you were... how should I say it... a touch too lenient with the nobles and the garrison of this city?"

Alpheo said nothing, only gestured for him to go on, eyes narrowed like a cat waiting for the wind to change.

"I would’ve expected you to take hostages at least," Jarza continued. "Hold the noble sons, seize their loyalties by the throat. Instead, you let them walk free. And the garrison?" He let the word hang for a moment. "You allowed any soldier who wished to leave safe passage and even permitted a full hundred of them to keep their arms and armor. "

"I did," Alpheo replied coolly.

Jarza leaned in. "And since I know you well enough to say your kindness has limits—very clear limits—I must assume there’s more at play. Because mercy, as I’ve observed, is not your instinct."

Alpheo smiled thinly. "You’ve been watching too closely."

"Someone must," Jarza quipped. "Because all those men you let go? They’ll rejoin Lechlian. They’ll fight against us. You know this. And yet you made it easier for them. Seems... counterproductive."

Alpheo wasn’t displeased to be questioned, far from it. In truth, he welcomed it. What joy was there in crafting a cunning plan if no one was clever enough to appreciate it? His lips curled faintly, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a man waiting for his moment to unveil a trick that had mesmerized the crowd.

He leaned back, folding his arms with the air of a teacher preparing to test a student. "Tell me, Jarza... what do you know about fishing?"

Jarza blinked, confused. "Fishing?" He frowned, as if Alpheo had just asked him to recite poetry. "Not much. Never had the patience for it. I suppose Clio would know.Why?"

Alpheo’s smile grew a touch wider. "Because strategy, my friend, is a lot like fishing."

He stood and began to pace slowly, his tone taking on the cadence of someone telling a tale rather than explaining a concept.

"You see, fishing isn’t about strength. It’s about timing. Patience. Knowing how to wait. The basics are simple: you cast your line, you bait the hook, and you sit still until something bites."

He paused, looking back at Jarza, who remained unconvinced.

"Throw the hook with no bait, and the fish swims right past it. Too soon, too fast, and it slips free. The best fishermen know how to hide the hook well, so well the fish never knows it’s been caught until it’s too late."

Jarza tilted his head, squinting. "I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about."

Alpheo gave a low chuckle and waved a dismissive hand.

He stopped going around , planting himself firmly before Jarza as the metaphor unraveled into clear and direct intention.

"We’re going to be here for a month. Maybe more. It’s already early November, and winter’s cold breath is on the march."

Jarza’s expression grew more serious, the weight of real plans finally surfacing beneath the surface talk.

"I’m no prophet," Alpheo continued, "so I can’t tell you exactly what Lechlian will do next. He’s lost his capital—that shakes foundations. Now, one of two things will happen: his nobles will see a sinking ship and jump off... or the forces behind Lechlian will throw everything they have into saving him. Either way, I don’t intend to wait and find out."

He turned back toward the open balcony of the old Lechlian citadel, gazing over the city that now bore his banners. His voice was calm, but the intensity behind it simmered.

"I’m not going to let fate toss a coin on our future. We end the year with a battle. A clear one. Something decisive. Before the snow makes cowards of even the bold."

He turned back, eyes sharp.

"If we can draw him into a fight before year’s end," Alpheo said, his voice low and deliberate, "then we seize control of the narrative. No more doubt. No more speculation. No hope of foreign aid, no rebellions, no fantasies. Just us—and him—in the mud, under winter skies."

He tapped a finger against the table, each word like the drum of distant war.

"We’ve spoken of this already. From now on, every move I make, every order I give, every coin I spend will be to build toward that final clash. A single, magnificent battle to end this little game."

He looked up from the parchment, locking eyes with Jarza.

"Unfortunately..." he exhaled, lips twisting in disdain, "Lechlian is a bitch. A coward in velvet, with just enough spine to stand but not to charge. He won’t come to me willingly. Not unless he’s cornered like a rat and made to believe his teeth still matter."

Jarza had stopped writing. His ink feather hung forgotten between his fingers. The glint in his eyes was not confusion , but fascination.

"That speech I gave," Alpheo continued, pacing now, energy rising with his words, "to the soldiers, the lords, the people , that was no idle boast. That was a gauntlet, hurled at Lechlian’s feet.

The men who fled Herculia will carry it like a poisoned whisper into his camp. They’ll say, your enemy mocks you.The lords will know of it and even the common soldiers."

He turned back, his tone gaining heat.

"And the lords who watched him run before the very walls of his capital? They’ll see that speech not as insult, but as truth. That their prince turned his back on them. That he let the city burn while he rode away like a thief in the night."

Jarza raised a brow, but said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Alpheo had his full attention.

"But even that," Alpheo said, voice dipping again, measured and cold, "may not be enough. Not for a man so addicted to comfort and caution. So what do we do?"

He leaned forward, almost conspiratorial.

"We give him hope."

"Hope?" Jarza echoed skeptically. "You plan to encourage him?"

"No," Alpheo said, smiling now. "We’ll give him just enough rope to hang himself with and laugh as he dangles around."

He stepped toward the edge of the room, gesturing toward the distant hills as if he could see through the stone.

"His son that trembling boy in silk. He’s the key. I like that boy, you know, he is sharp and has a wide perspective to see beyond himself.You can take one or two things from him , you know?"

Jarza’s eyes narrowed. "Thalien? Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him around."

"Of course you haven’t," Alpheo replied, tone sly. "I sent him away. A mission only he could perform."

"Alone?"

"With guards or not, the outcome won’t change. And he certainly doesn’t need a leash, as he has no other choice but to work for us. When Lechlian will realise the trap, it will be far too late.’’ As he said so, he took up the cup of water standing near the paperwork.

He drank, then set the cup down.

"Now... we wait. And when the snows fall, and Lechlian rides to save his crown... We’ll be ready to make it fall."