Her features were a masterpiece of delicate symmetry, as if carved by the hands of a divine sculptor. Her face was framed by a cascade of ebony-black hair, falling in soft, lustrous waves that brushed her shoulders like a silken curtain. Her eyes, veiled by a translucent fabric, were the color of dark emeralds—deep, mysterious, and as enchanting as the fabled seas of the Empire. Her lips, painted with a subtle rosy hue, curved into a gentle, almost knowing smile as she mirrored Alpheo's own expression.
She wore a simple yet elegant brown silk dress that draped her slender frame with effortless grace. Though young—no more than seventeen—her poise was regal, her light curves hinted at rather than revealed by the flowing fabric. Beside her stood a younger girl, no older than 10, her small frame adorned in a similar silk dress, her raven-black hair and veiled eyes mirroring the elder's. The child's gaze darted around the room with unbridled curiosity, as if trying to piece together the identity of their guest.
Alpheo's eyes swept the room, noting the absence of any young man near the prince. Does he have no son? Perhaps only daughters, he mused, though he quickly tucked the thought away, resolving to investigate later. For now, he focused on the prince, who seemed to deliberately ignore the silent exchange of smiles between Alpheo and the elder girl.
Prince Arzalatt leaned back, his hand resting casually against the side of his face, fingers brushing his ear as if to emphasize his next words. "I've been told," he began, his voice smooth but laced with subtle authority, "that you command five hundred and ten fighting men—all armored and equipped. Was I misinformed?"
Alpheo met the prince's gaze unflinchingly, his own steady and unwavering. "You were informed correctly, Your Grace," he replied, his voice firm and confident. "A quarter of them are clad in breastplates, the rest in chainmail. They are seasoned, well-trained, and ready to serve under your banner. I assure you, they will make short work of any enemy foolish enough to stand against you."
The prince's lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, though his eyes remained cool and calculating. "I hope your men are worth the price I'm paying, mercenary," he said, his tone casual but edged with a quiet challenge. "Words are cheap, after all."
My name is Alpheo, you bloody cunt, Alpheo nearly spat, the words clawing at the back of his throat like a caged beast.
But he swallowed the retort, his face a mask of calm as he dipped his head in a respectful nod. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, though his thoughts were anything but courteous.
"Preparations are underway," the prince continued, his voice tinged with a predatory glee. "In no more than a month, we shall take our steel to those bastards of Oizen. I can't wait to repay them in kind." His eyes locked onto Alpheo's, a sly smirk playing on his lips. "And, of course, to you will go the other coin."
Alpheo's mind raced, skepticism bubbling beneath his composed exterior. Right before winter? Is he a fool? he thought, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. Either they've had a bountiful harvest, or the prince is losing his wits. Unbeknownst to him, it was the former—the south had indeed reaped a generous yield this year.
"Your enemies shall tremble at the sight of your banners," Alpheo replied smoothly, his voice dripping with honeyed flattery. The prince, predictably, lapped it up like a pig wallowing in its filth.
"Yes, they will," the prince said, his chest puffing with pride. "I eagerly await the day I see it with my own eyes. In the meantime, you shall stay here in my court as an honored guest."
"And my men, Your Grace?" Alpheo inquired, his tone deferential but firm.
The prince stroked his chin thoughtfully, his hand shifting from his ear to his jaw. "They may camp outside the walls. I will provide their provisions."
"I understand, Your Grace," Alpheo replied
"This evening, a feast will be held in your honor," the prince announced, his tone magnanimous. "As my guest, you are, of course, invited."
Alpheo bowed again, his posture the picture of respect. "If it pleases Your Grace," he said, his voice steady. "We shall eagerly anticipate the feast. May it be a celebration of your future victories together."
The prince nodded, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his features. "Indeed, may it be so," he replied. But then his expression shifted, his gaze turning sharp as a blade. "Before we part ways, there is one more matter to address."
Alpheo's instincts prickled. Here it comes.
"I have heard whispers among my courtiers," the prince began, his eyes scanning the room as if daring anyone to speak. "Some question the wisdom of enlisting mercenaries. Others doubt your loyalty."
Alpheo's jaw tightened, though his face remained impassive. Why the hell would he bring this up in front of me? he wondered, his mind racing. But he kept his voice calm, his tone measured. "Your Grace, if I were to betray you—my first employer, no less—my life as a mercenary captain would be short-lived. Who would hire a free company known for treachery? Let me assure you, I will honor my contract so long as Your Grace honors his. I swear it by the gods."
Suddenly, a voice cut through the murmurs of the court, sharp and mocking. "What are oaths to sell-swords?"
Alpheo's eyes swept the room, searching for the source of the insult, but the coward remained hidden in the sea of faces. "May I ask who spoke?" he asked, his voice as calm as still water. When no one stepped forward, a wry smile tugged at his lips. "Ah, a craven," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "It seems I find them everywhere. I suspect I'd find more cowardice than shit in your gut. In fact," he added, his smile turning dangerous, "I have half a mind to cut you open and see for myself."
The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade.
Alpheo's smile was sharp, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "And I think my companions would gladly bet that I'd have an easier time finding a virgin in a brothel than finding a spine among your courtiers," he said, his tone dripping with mockery.
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, though it was uneasy, like the nervous chuckles of men who knew they were treading on thin ice. All but one man—a stern-faced courtier whose expression remained stony, his disapproval etched into every line of his face.
"As for your inquiry, craven," Alpheo continued, his voice rising, "am I not a man? When my time comes to pass into the next realm, shall I not stand before the same gods as any other? Whether my deeds earn me punishment or reward, they will be weighed by the same divine hand that judges merchants and beggars alike. And mark my words," he added, his gaze locking onto the crowd, "you too will face the gods, far sooner than you expect if you don't learn to hold your tongue. As while you may run it as you wish, the same goes for the sword at my hip"
Even the prince, who had been lounging in his seat with an air of detached amusement, straightened slightly, as he just threatened one of his courtiers. For a moment, it seemed as though the tension might snap, and steel would be drawn. But then the prince laughed—a loud, booming sound that broke the silence like a hammer striking glass. The courtiers, ever eager to follow their lord's lead, joined in, though their laughter was forced and hollow.
"Well spoken," the prince declared, his voice carrying over the noise. He cast a pointed glance at the stern-faced dissenter, his eyes sharp with warning. "Let us hope your skill with a sword matches your eloquence." He raised a hand, cutting off any further dissent. "No more insults to my guests. Bring ale and bread for them," he commanded, his tone firm and final.
Servants hurried into the room, bearing trays of bread and pitchers of wine. Alpheo was the first to step forward, taking a loaf of bread and breaking it with deliberate care. He passed it to his men, his movements calm and deliberate, a show of unity and respect. Next, he took a cup of wine, sipping from it before passing it along.
When the cup reached Asag, however, the man hesitated. He seemed lost in thought, his brow furrowed as if wrestling with some inner turmoil. The prince raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and expectant. Asag, sensing the weight of that stare, forced himself to drink. He drained the cup in one go, then gagged, his face twisting in discomfort.
The room erupted in laughter, the prince chuckling along with his courtiers at the funny sight; of course, their guests shared no such mirth, limiting themselves to simply staring at the man on the throne.