Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 986: Developments(1)

The morning light spilled across the royal gardens in long, amber ribbons, catching the dew on the grass as Edric bent down. He plucked a solitary, pale bloom that had dared to grow across the path, bringing it to his face to draw a deep, grounding breath.

The recent weeks had been a slog of hollow fanfare and stagnant air. Time seemed to move at a crawl, alternating between the repetitive, mechanical thunder of troop drills and endless council meetings where Edric spent three-quarters of his time staring at the dust motes in the air and hoped no one would take notice.Of course they did.

His mind was elsewhere even now.

Last week, his old guardian, had been dispatched on a mission to the ancestral lands of the Voghondai. Edric felt a prickle of resentment at being left behind; he craved the bite of the mountain air , some action and the chance to finally see the rugged cradle that had forged the strong men he had the privilege to serve and break the Fingers with on that fateful day...

Peace was really boring....Though he knew many would disagree and would even curse him for the thought, Edric found himself praying for a spar, anything to break the crushing boredom. It wasn’t just for his own sake; the Prince had been... different lately.Peace was getting to his head.

Alpheo tried to wear his stoic mask, but the cracks were widening. The ghosts of the autumn campaign, once suppressed by the adrenaline of the march had returned to haunt him in the quiet of the palace. If even a rustic soldier like Edric could see the Prince’s spirit fraying at the edges, then how many others did others not to? Everything that the prince had suppressed was forcing his way out...and the result was obvious to the eye.

He took another sniff of the flower, trying to drown out his unease, but the petals offered nothing.

"I suppose you are the only one unlucky enough to have plucked the one flower in this myriad that possesses no soul," a boyish, silver-toned voice drifted from the shadow of a nearby hedge.

Edric turned to the voice.

"That bloom may be a feast for the eyes, but it is a famine for the nose," the boy continued. He stepped forward with a grace that felt inherited, plucking a vibrant, deep-crimson blossom and extending it to martial man. "Try this one. It is far more... honest of its looks."

Edric took the offering, taking strange notice of the way the boy spoke. Was that how noble born usually spoke?Anyway , Edric extended his hand, his calloused fingers brushing against the boy’s untested and pale hand. He brought it to his nose. The scent was thick, sweet, and heady, the kind of smell that belonged in a palace, not a barracks.....this was really a mistake.

"I suppose this is what a flower is meant to be," Edric grunted, his voice sounding rough and unpolished compared to the child’s melody. "You’re a bit of an expert on the garden, young master?"

"When one’s father spends a significant portion of his waking hours lost in the geometry of these hedges, one naturally begins to pursue similar interests to court his favor," the boy replied. He bowed slightly, though his eyes remained bright and curious. "And please, I implore you, call me Basil. My father would most vigorously disapprove if I were to flaunt my station among the men who hold the steel of the realm."

Basil took a step closer, his gaze sweeping over Edric’s weathered armor. "This would be the inaugural occasion of our speaking together. I have long harbored a desire to engage in a dialogue with a warrior of your particular... reputation, but alas, the fleeting opportunities of court life flew by, and I, in my hesitation and great shame, pursued none."

He gently took the flower back from Edric’s hand, closing his eyes as he immersed himself in the fragrance. ’’Truly wonderful indeed.’’

Edric gave the boy of twelve a long, appraising look.

That truly was no way a youth should speak...what the hell was wrong with the boy?

In the soft morning light, the young golden son of the prince was a walking portrait of a union that shouldn’t have worked for a myriad of reasons.

He had inherited the best of both bloodlines: the piercing, emerald eyes of his mother, framing a face that held the strong chin and noble Romelian nose of the Prince. With his luscious black hair catching the sun, Basil looked every bit the part of a future sovereign, so much so that Edric felt a sudden, strange pang of envy.

The commander had been a muddy youth with a stick, while he was born with the silver spoon...how unjust.

"I do certainly hope that I have not incurred your displeasure by forcing myself into this dialogue," Basil said, his voice regaining that polished, courtly sheen. "Were you perhaps engaged in official business of the state? Is my presence here a hindrance to you?"

Edric looked around at the empty garden path, then back at his own dusty boots. What part of him looked as if he were occupied with anything more serious than avoiding a nap?

Usually, the ministers and ladies-in-law told him he had the visage and demeanor of a "good-for-nothing bum."

Obviously that was usually told with a gentler vocabulary.

It was a description Edric usually wore with pride, but hearing it reframed in such high-born language made him pause. Wait, he wondered, is this the kid’s way of calling me a lazy bastard? Or am I overthinking it?

He decided to give the boy the benefit of the doubt. Alpheo spoke of his son too proudly to be that rowdy.

"I can’t think of a moment when your presence would be a hindrance, little prince," Edric grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "Still... why do you talk so strangely? It’s like listening to a book with legs."

"What do you mean by that, pray tell, my good man? Are you suggesting I am... weird?" Basil’s calm smile suddenly curdled. His brow furrowed, and for a second, he looked genuinely offended.

Nah, just like you’ve got a stick up your arse kid, Edric thought. But even he wasn’t suicidal enough to say that to the heir apparent.

The sour expression lasted only a heartbeat before it shattered. Basil burst into a fit of bright, melodic laughter, a sound that was finally, blessedly, in line with his age.

"I am sorry!" the boy gasped between giggles, wiping a tear from his eye. "I really am... I just couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see if I could make the Great Commander of the Fourth uncomfortable with a bit of High Romelian etiquette. I had to know if you’d bow or bolt, nice of you to tell it to my face."

"Well, that was a bit of fresh air," Edric muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I’m suddenly seeing more of your father in you than your mother. He’s got that same streak of devilry hidden under the silk."

"But why such kindness? That is the most gracious thing I have been told of late!" Basil teased, falling back into the character, though his eyes were dancing with mischief now.

"You have a strange sense of fun, kid," Edric said, shaking his head. "When I was your age, I wasn’t practicing my grammar on soldiers.

I liked to stick branches into cow pies to see how far they’d splatter, and I spent half my days making fart noises with my armpit." He paused, his expression turning mock-thoughtful. "Not that much has changed, really. I blame the army. Soldiers are bad company, young man. Don’t make my mistake stick to the book."

"And what would be the right way?" Basil asked, his laughter dying down into a genuine, curious smile. "To surround myself with the rats of the court? I have spent enough time at Father’s side to know that is a path that will bring nothing good. Father would be ashamed of me if I became one of them. Though," he added, a small wince touching his eye, a nervous tick so identical to Alpheo’s it made Edric double-take, "it’s hard to avoid the ’bad company’ when I spend all my time with my uncles."

Basil tilted his head as if recalling something. "What did you mean... by the noise? The one with the armpit?"

Edric grinned. This was a curriculum he could actually teach. "A vital skill for any statesman," he said solemnly. He tucked his thumb into his armpit, cupped his hand, and delivered a sharp, wet thwack-pfft that echoed through the pristine garden.

Basil’s jaw dropped. He immediately tried to imitate the gesture, but only a dry, pathetic slapping sound emerged.

"No, no, not like that," Edric coached, leaning down and taking off his shirt. "You have to cup the hand slightly, see? You’re making a little pocket of air. Then you push it out all at once. Like you’re trying to squeeze a frog."

He watched as the heir to the thrones of Yarzat and Herculia concentrated with the same intensity his father used to plan a siege. After a few failed attempts, a sudden, gloriously loud and wet sound erupted from Basil’s armpit.

The boy’s face lit up with pure, unadulterated joy. For a few minutes, the High Romelian etiquette was forgotten as the two of them stood in the center of the royal garden, the Commander of the Fourth and the Prince of the Blood, competing to see who could make the most offensive sound in the presence of the roses.

In the end experience, however gave Edric the win.