Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Chapter 105  Getting the hell in (3)

Alpheo felt the iron grip of the guards clamp down on his arms, their hands rough and unyielding as they dragged him through the dimly lit corridor. The cold stone walls of the keep seemed to close in around him, the rhythmic clatter of boots echoing ominously in the silence. Despite the tension building in his chest, his eyes darted around, keen and calculating, taking in every detail, every weakness in the structure.

The keep was far too quiet. His mind quickly noted the unsettling absence of soldiers. Thirty, perhaps forty guards inside at most. His forces, waiting just beyond the gates, would be more than enough to overwhelm them if things took a turn. A storm, he mused inwardly, could have been so easy ...fuck.

The guards beside him remained silent, their faces expressionless beneath their helms. Alpheo matched their stoicism, but unease prickled at the back of his mind. He had stepped into this stronghold willingly, knowing full well the risks, but the stakes felt heavier now, the gamble steeper. They arrived at a large wooden door, worn from years of use but still sturdy. One of the guards rapped twice, the dull thud reverberating down the corridor like a death knell. After a few tense moments, the door creaked open, revealing a small chamber beyond, dimly lit by flickering torches. Without so much as a word, the guards shoved him forward, their grips releasing as they disarmed him of his dagger, and he stumbled into the room, barely catching himself before hitting the ground. @@novelbin@@

Alpheo dusted off his sleeves, casting a glance at the wife of the late Prince Arkawatt,Rosalin who sat poised and regal on a velvet sofa across from him. Her expression was sharp, cold as ice, as she sipped from a cup of wine, the four guards surrounding her radiating silent hostility.

"Is that any way to treat a guest, my ladies?" Alpheo began with a sly smile, offering a shallow bow, though his tone was anything but submissive.

The woman's eyes flicked toward him, unamused. "You are no guest of ours," she replied curtly, setting down her cup with a soft clink, her fingers never leaving the handle.

Alpheo chuckled lightly as he made his way toward the opposite seat, brushing past the tension that lingered in the air. "Well, I suppose the circumstances don't exactly lend themselves to hospitality, do they?" He gestured broadly to the guards and the stark room, then moved to sit.

Her voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. "I don't recall giving you permission to sit."

Alpheo paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over the back of the chair. He raised an eyebrow at Rosalind, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Oh, forgive me," he said, his tone dripping with mock politeness. "I wasn't aware we were still playing by the rules of etiquette."

He stood upright, looking at the chair as though it was a curious relic. "After all," he continued, "you invited me here without so much as a friendly welcome, disarmed me, and gave me the grand tour of your cold stone walls. So you'll have to excuse me if I assumed we were past formalities."

Rosalind's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. The guards shifted slightly, but she held up a hand to keep them in place.

"You assume much, Alpheo," she said coldly. "A dangerous habit."

Alpheo paused, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. "I'll sit anyway," he said, letting out an exaggerated sigh as he lowered himself into the chair across from her, ignoring the quick, defensive shift from the guards at his sides. "Quite the rough treatment out there, you know. I came here to—"

"—To what?" she interrupted, her voice steely. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "What stops me from having your throat slit right now, right where you sit?"

For a moment, the room felt heavier, the walls closing in. The tension swelled like a wave, but Alpheo didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned back in his chair with exaggerated ease, crossing one leg over the other, his face the picture of calm indifference. Her threat seemed more amusing than concerning.

"The 500 men waiting outside your walls," he said softly, his tone steady but unyielding. "In about thirty minutes, if I'm not walking out of here... they'll assume I've been killed or taken hostage. And then, my dear lady, they'll storm this keep, tear it down stone by stone." He let the words sink in before his smile widened just a fraction, his eyes gleaming with a hint of danger. "Believe me, they won't be as gentle as I am. So if you plan to spill my blood, you might want to prepare for your own to follow."

Rosalind's gaze didn't waver, but Alpheo noticed a flicker of uncertainty beneath the ice.

He got her. One of the guards shifted uneasily, stealing a glance toward the door, perhaps already envisioning the carnage that could follow.

Alpheo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a low, almost charming murmur. "Let's avoid that, shall we? There's a way out of this mess—one that saves both of us from having our heads cut off"

Rosalind's eyes narrowed further, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "I could still take you hostage," she said slowly, her words like venom, laced with menace.

Alpheo chuckled, though the sound was dry and humorless. "Ah, yes, you could," he replied, his tone cool and measured. "But here's the thing—you'd be making a grave mistake. You see, my dear lady, this band of mine is not a group of noble knights bound by loyalty and honor." He let the words hang in the air before continuing. "They're mercenaries. Hardened men who follow strength, not titles. And if you bring me out and threaten them to kill me if they don't back, it won't stop them—it will only ignite their greed, I am sure some men will be happy to take my place. They'll storm this place with even more fury."

He let the weight of his words settle, watching Rosalind closely. Her expression remained guarded, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of hesitation.

"Now, before you get any ideas," Alpheo continued, his voice softening with a feigned politeness, "you might think you can buy their loyalty. Offer them gold, power... But here's the reality—nothing's stopping them from taking it themselves after they've burned this city to the ground. And once they've looted every last ounce of silver and gold, do you think they'll leave anything—or anyone—behind?"

Rosalind's lips pressed into a tight line. The room grew colder, but Alpheo could see the gears turning in her mind, weighing the risk against the potential gain. The threat of the mercenaries outside was real, and she knew it.

"Very well," Rosalind said finally, her voice still cold but now carrying the weight of someone who knew brute force alone would not solve her problems. "What is it you want, then?"

Alpheo allowed a small, satisfied smile to tug at the corners of his mouth, though his mind remained sharp and cautious. "To begin," he said, his tone casual but deliberate, "I'd like to speak with your daughter. Jasmine, if memory serves."

At the mention of her daughter, the princess's eyes darkened, her suspicion palpable. She took a slow sip of wine, as if to mask her unease. "You have nothing to discuss with her," Rosalind said, her voice cold and measured, like a blade freshly sharpened.

Alpheo's smile widened slightly, but his eyes remained focused, like a predator watching his prey. "On the contrary, Princess, I believe I do. I think I should have a word with the next ruler of this princedom''

Rosalind stiffened, her fingers gripping the armrests of her chair, the tension rolling off her in waves. "What are you saying?" Her voice faltered, the steely edge cracking just enough to reveal a thread of fear. "What has happened to my husband?"

Alpheo's expression shifted from amusement to solemnity. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his seat, his movements respectful and calm. Bowing his head, he delivered the blow. "Your husband, Prince Arkawatt, has perished in battle."

A heavy silence crashed over the room like a wave. Rosalind's face went pale, the color draining from her cheeks. She sat motionless, her body rigid as shock clouded her once imperious gaze. Her lips trembled slightly, though she said nothing, struggling to process the enormity of the news.

Alpheo, sensing the moment, turned toward the guards stationed nearby. His voice cut through the thick silence. "Leave us. Now."

The guards hesitated for a brief moment, glancing at their princess, but the authority in Alpheo's voice—and the silent command in Rosalind's eyes—left no room for argument. They quickly moved toward the door, filing out of the room without a word.

And so, in the quiet, dimly lit chamber, Alpheo and Princess Rosalind stood alone. The fate of the city—and the entire princedom of Yarzat—was about to be decided in this small, unassuming room, a place where titles and armies suddenly felt far less significant than ever.

"Now," Alpheo said softly, taking his seat once more, his tone far more serious, "let's discuss how to move forward."