Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 646: Dear Family(2)

Lord Cretio came to a full stop, his boots grinding softly against the stone of the palace floor. His expression, which had remained composed until now, hardened with unmistakable disapproval. He turned slowly to face Thalien, his lips pressed into a thin, pale line.

He was all in all apalled that such words had even been uttered

"Your Grace" he began, voice low and clipped, each word weighed and measured, "your father is prince of Herculia and I am a lord of his."

The silence between them was heavy—but Cretio pressed on, undeterred.

"It would be in the best interest of everyone behind these walls if we concentrate not on your resentments, but on the enemy that waits beyond them. A storm approaches, not of gossip and palace intrigue, but of blood and fire, IF we fail to stop that storm our way of life is going to die.

And I daresay we have better use for our breath than to spend it tearing down what little remains of the royal image, flawed as it may be."

He let the words hang for a moment, then added with a final, pointed remark:

"I’ve heard the rumors—whispers at court, idle talk —that perhaps the third son of the prince had a screw or two loose. I always dismissed them, thought them murmurs "He stepped closer now, lowering his voice slightly, almost like a father chastising a son.

"But if you insist on parading such reckless bitterness in the halls meant to inspire the defense of a dying city, then I will begin to wonder if perhaps the rumors were far more generous than they should have been."

Thalien showed no visible reaction to Lord Cretio’s sharp rebuke. He merely blinked once, slowly, as if letting the words sink into him like rain over stone. Then, in a voice too calm to match the weight of his accusations, he tilted his head and said:

"I cannot help but notice, my lord, that for all your righteous outrage, you did not deny a single word I’ve spoken." His tone was eerily flat, almost reciting. "So tell me—if your pride allows it—which part was it that found your silent agreement?Was it the craven part? ’’

He took a step forward, his boots tapping against the marble floor of the palace hall, echoing in the hush that followed.

"Was it when I spoke of how my father—the great prince of this realm—sparked a war he badly lost? How he marched our armies to annihilation, squandering the strength of the realm for a grudge he himself made?" His gaze flicked toward the high windows, letting in the pale light of the late afternoon.

"Or perhaps," he continued, voice sharpening, "it was when I reminded you that when the moment to strike came—when our enemies were fractured and vulnerable—he turned his horse around. Refused to unite with those who could have helped us end this bloodshed. He chose pride over putting an actual effort to mend the mistake, that I remember your lordship fell captive to.

The words lingered between them like smoke.

"Or was it the fact that your reward for marrying your daughter to my brother was not trust, but abandonment? That this palace, this city, was left to you like a dying man’s last breath—’Hold it,’ he said, and vanished with his gold and steel. Tell me, my lord, what did he leave you to fight with? Dull blades and hollow promises?Oh no wait... he left you a son afflicted with madness"

Cretio’s face remained impassive, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

"I know what you saw when he rode from the gates, head bowed like a servant instead of a sovereign. And I know what you felt. Because I felt it too. We all did. Every commoner that looked upon that royal carriage knew something sacred had broken."

Thalien’s voice dropped, almost a whisper now, but every word cut like a blade.

"Or was it my final claim that found a home in your thoughts? That perhaps the realm would be better in the hands of my elder brother—the heir whose son will be blood with you now. A man with resolve, with sense. A man who doesn’t flinch at the sound of marching boots."

For a breathless moment, Cretio said nothing. The hall was still but for the distant clatter of armor in the courtyard and the soft creaking of timbers shifting under the palace’s weight. He looked at the young man before him—not yet twenty, and yet speaking like a man unburdened by fear.

He felt a chill.

"What you’re saying right now," Cretio said at last, voice iron-hard, "is treason. Reckless, shameful treason."

Thalien only smiled.

"Is it treason," he asked, "to speak plainly about a prince who abandoned his people? Is it treason to call out cowardice for what it is?" He shrugged, as if the matter were of no more importance than the weather. "Or is it treason only because the crown still rests on the wrong head?Wouldn’t Arnold be a much better ruler than him? Who was it, that after all put a stop to the rebellion caused by the famine of three years ago?"

Seeing no response from the older man, Thalien let the silence linger for a few beats longer before deciding to draw the matter to a close—for now.

There was little point in pressing a man so deeply entrenched in duty, especially when the weight of a city’s survival already pulled heavily on his shoulders.

"Well," Thalien said, voice returning to its earlier, calm drawl, "it would be pointless for either of us to continue musing on such things while the enemy still marches upon us, just as you have pointed out." He offered a slight shrug, his eyes lazily sweeping over the palace hallway. "Each of us has a role to play. You, my lord, must prepare this city to survive a storm greater than any in its history. And I..." he paused, lips curling into a self-deprecating smile, "I shall stand atop the walls, wave banners, and pretend that the royal bloodline hasn’t already abandoned its people."

His eyes flicked to the fading light outside the window.

"What a sad time to be alive," he murmured, almost as if to himself. Then, with a graceful nod toward Lord Cretio, he turned and began to stroll away, the heels of his boots clicking against the marble floor.

But before he reached the end of the hall, Cretio’s voice called out behind him. freёwebnoѵel.com

"Why are you telling me all this?"

The words came tight and low, as if drawn from a well he didn’t wish to tap. It was a question that had clearly been brewing despite Cretio’s earlier attempt to shut the conversation down.

Thalien halted. He did not turn immediately. Instead, he gazed at the shadows stretching across the floor, then slowly pivoted back toward the older man.

"Well, my lord," he said, his tone quiet but clear, "the simplest reason is that I don’t trust my father to keep his end of the deal. And I don’t believe you should either."

He began pacing again, not with urgency, but as though casually recounting tales at a dinner party. "You see, his ambition has always outstripped his ability. Even now, he dreams of titles not yet his. He wants—desperately—for someone in his bloodline to rise to the station of archon. Something grander than what he’s earned. Something eternal. That dream has haunted him like a fever for years. It wouldn’t be the first time he overreached. I’ve heard whispers that before the Catastrophe of the Bleeding Plains, he tried to turn Yarzat’s princess-uncle’s widow to his cause after her husband death—just as he did with Lord Vroghios nineteen years ago. That one succeeded. The other? Not so much."

He looked back toward Cretio with a pointed gaze.

"And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s answered loyalty with apathy, either. You, for example. You’ve raised the levies four times. Fought for him. Bled for him. Or, to be more precise, for his son—my noble brother.

No lord has given more to the Crown in recent years, and yet... what have you received in return, my lord? A ruined city to defend? Gratitude must be a rare coin in the royal purse these days."

Cretio’s expression remained unreadable, though there was a shift—some subtle tightening at the corners of his eyes.He hated his situation too, but still he held his tongue.

Thalien gave him a sideways glance.

"Ah," he said with a small smirk, "but perhaps you were better wondering why I would support such a plot. After all, what good would it do me if my brother were to ascend? I don’t strike you as the loving sort of sibling, do I?"

’’You do not’’ He replied pointedly

"Well, I certainly don’t hate him," Thalien said with a chuckle. "We’ve had our quarrels, yes, but I’ve no bad blood with him. My interests, my lord, are simpler than most.

I have no desire for land or glory. I crave warm pleasures—good wine, willing company, and a manor far from politics where I can drink myself stupid and die fat and satisfied."

He grinned now, not unlike a boy confessing to a harmless prank. "If my dear brother promises me that future in exchange for my help now, then I shall sing his praises until the stars fall. It’s a fair trade, wouldn’t you agree?"

Thalien took a final step toward the great doors at the end of the corridor, then turned to face the older lord one last time.

"And please, don’t imagine I’m alone in thinking this way. Many lords—quiet ones, cautious ones—are beginning to see the same thing: that the crown would sit far better on Arnold’s brow than our father’s. The prince has had his chance. And he’s squandered it.Now all they need to come under one banner is a small little push" he said mimick the motion with his open palm

A long silence followed, broken only by the wind slipping through the windows.

"Well then," Thalien said, clasping his hands and bowing his head lightly, the mask of levity slipping back into place, "I shall leave you to your duties, my lord. Please let me know what my next task should be. Perhaps something a little more meaningful than waving flags, I wouldn’t certainly mind to swing a sword once or twice."

He winked.

"And do have yourself a pleasant day, my lord. As pleasant as it can be when one’s surrounded on all sides."

With that, he turned and departed, the echo of his footsteps fading into the depths of the long, crumbling palace halls.

Outside, the sky had turned a bruised orange, and the first fires of the evening were being lit along the ramparts. The city of stone, with its ancient towers and hollowed streets, bracing itself for the doom that was coming .

And high above, banners still flew—tattered remnants of a dynasty fraying at the edges already, failing to notice the rot within it.