Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 641: A awkward dinner

As the golden sun dipped beneath the towers of Yarzat, casting long, blood-orange shadows across the palace stones, the court inside was far from still. In the wake of the princedom’s most harrowing crisis to date, they had been busy cleaning the aftermaths.

The corpse of the heretical priest, or what remained of it after his miraculous "death before judgment," had finally been sentenced—executed in full accordance with royal decree, if only for formality’s sake.

Scribes worked feverishly to document the payment of fines levied upon the rebel lords, their ink-stained hands working on the pillars of Alpheo’s great plans. Hostages, the sons and brothers of once-proud noble houses, were led into the audience chamber to receive their gilded shackles: ceremonial court titles, designed to make prisoners look like honored guests.

It was into this thrum of political cleaning that two high-born guests found themselves removed from the aftermath of this war , sharing an evening meal in one of the palace’s modest side chambers.

On one side of the small, oaken table sat Dorian, the envoy of mighty Romelia.

Across from him, older but no less imposing, was Archion Vesperian—the Crown’s chosen hammer of divine judgment, who had, just days earlier, condemned Elioth as a guilty man.

Despite their lofty stations, the table was set with only the most restrained fare. The plates before them were filled not with the extravagance typical of Yarzat’s evening banquets, but with what could be described as a merchant’s supper: bread still warm but unsweetened, smoked fish, lentils in olive oil, and a solitary bowl of apples set between them.

It wasn’t like Yarzat’s cuisine was lacking or anything, on the contrary, since Alpheo’s arrival it could be argued to be the best in the world.

Still, Dorian, who had expected some small display of the court’s wealth, especially in private company, eyed the meager arrangement with thinly veiled surprise. A diplomat from Romelia—where power was measured in how many delicacies your table could bear—he had assumed a man like Vesperian, high in both political and religious rank, would use any excuse to feast grandly.

But the old archion ate with apparent humility. He broke the bread in silence, dipped it once into his bowl, and chewed with the patience of a man who had fasted longer days than Dorian had spent in the city. There was no wine on his side of the table, only water in a clay cup.

To Dorian, it was jarring. After all, he had seen the Pontifex himself—figurehead of Vesperian’s faith—gorge on figs until his teeth were blackened, and require three slaves to carry the fat fuck’s wine goblet. The Pontifex’s white tunic, supposed to be a symbol of purity, had more wine stains than a tavern’s countertop.

Either this is an act, Dorian thought, or Vesperian truly does live by the creed he enforces.

Vesperian was the first to speak, his voice calm but laced with that practiced softness that men of the cloth so often used to disarm the wary and to mimic a humility that most time was not there.

"I hope you’ll forgive me, sir, if my question sounds a touch indelicate," he said, folding his hands neatly before him. "But it seems to me that something weighs upon your mind. Over these past days, I’ve seen a cloud over you—heavier than one would expect from mere travel fatigue."

Dorian looked up slowly from his plate. Across the table, Vesperian’s gaze met his, steady and unblinking.

For a moment, Dorian considered the intent behind the question. Was it simple courtesy, an old man making conversation over supper? Or was it a probe to fish for some truth? Either was possible, especially since he knew very little of the old man.

Still, the question struck true. The archon had sensed what others hadn’t dared to ask aloud.

It was true that something gnawed at Dorian—a quiet, smoldering frustration he had been careful not to show in public. Ever since his audience with Prince Alpheo, he’d carried the weight of it in his chest like a stone.

The refusal that came. Quiet, polite, and utterly firm.

Romelia had offered Yarzat an alliance—shoulder to shoulder with an empire, a partnership of swords and coin against their common enemies. Such a proposal, even in these diminished times, should have been met with gratitude, if not eagerness.

Instead, Alpheo had received it like a man being offered a favor he didn’t need.

It was scandalous. A princedom turning away the hand of the Empire? In ages past, that alone would have warranted reprisal. Under Imperator Gratios, such insolence would have sparked a punitive campaign before the moon changed. No frontier lord would have dared to decline an imperial offer without consequence.

But the world had shifted. The Empire was no longer what it had been. Its borders still stretched far, its legions still marched, but the weight behind its name had lessened. The roar had become a murmur. Dorian knew it, and so did Alpheo.

Still, to feel it so clearly in the way the prince declined him—it stung.

There had been no fanfare, no announcement of the offer to the court. It was a private affair, held in the stone-chilled quiet of Yarzat’s war room. In hindsight, Dorian was glad.

Had the rejection occurred publicly, it would’ve been a blow not just to him, but to the image of Romelia itself. A visible slight—proof of the slow erosion of power, of respect lost. And though that erosion was a truth too many diplomats whispered behind closed doors, it was a truth that could not afford to be seen on a stage.

The empire could not be seen to beg. And it certainly could not be seen to be refused.

Dorian lifted his goblet and drank—not to quench thirst, but to buy a few more moments of composure. When he set it down, he answered with the smooth grace of a seasoned envoy.

"You’re perceptive" he said lightly, as though brushing away a mild discomfort. "And you’re not wrong. I have had much on my mind’’

A small silence passed between them.

"Indeed," Vesperian said at last, breaking the silence again, his tone gentle but not without weight. "Should I take it as mere coincidence that your troubled mood began so soon after your meeting with the Prince?"

The question was posed lightly, almost innocently—but Dorian could feel the sharpness beneath it, like the point of a dagger slowly lurching toward his stomach.

So he is trying to gauge something, Dorian thought as his eyes narrowed just slightly, the way a lion’s might when it senses a trap just beneath the grass.

Dorian set down his fork with the elegance of a man well-versed in navigating court intrigues. He didn’t rush to answer, but when he finally did, his voice was composed and smooth.

"I hope your reverence will not misunderstand. My mood these days stems from a personal matter—one of unfortunate family news I received shortly after our arrival," he said, his tone dipped in the right balance of formality and veiled finality. "It is not something I feel comfortable sharing at this time."

Vesperian regarded him for a moment—quiet, still, expression unreadable. The silence lingered long enough to suggest a silent question: Is this how you wish to play it?

But in the end, the old priest only nodded. "I see. Then I owe you an apology for the assumption."

He paused, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a cloth before continuing with a calculated shift in tone—too casual to be accidental.

"It’s just that... your melancholy did seem to take hold a few days after your meeting with the Prince. Speaking of which—you were right, you know, back in the carriage," he added with a small smile, as though recollecting an old conversation between friends.

"Prince Alpheo is... quite a remarkable man. Gifted in war, and no less shrewd in peace. The kind of leader whose name echoes long after the battles are done.

I suspect the princedom—friend to Romelia, of course—will flourish under him. Especially now that all his enemies have been... humbled in the field.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he were preparing some grand expedition in the coming months. With him at its head, Yarzat may yet become something greater than what it has been. A more civilized, strong, and respectable state—as befits a friend of the Empire."

It was a statement dressed as praise, but Dorian could hear the undercurrents. A reminder. A subtle assertion that Romelia still saw itself as the center of gravity, and that others, even ambitious princelings like Alpheo, ought to orbit it—gracefully and gratefully.

Worse of all he was right.

Does the Empire still think of them as friend? He wondered as he stared to gouge Dorian’s reaction

Dorian gave a small, measured nod.

Of course , he wouldn’t give him any information.

"Yes. I’m sure he has great plans," he replied simply, with a diplomat’s restraint. There was no warmth in his tone, but neither was there any ice. Just that deliberately neutral place where true thoughts hide.

But inwardly, the words rang louder.

So I was right. It was about the prince.Did the Romelians try to curb the prince’s appetite?Are they fearing that they are getting to strong and them too weak?Did Alpheo insult them in response?

Are they looking to tie them down to their current position?

All these questions passed through the old Archon’s mind , one after the other.

And yet above all, above all the meager information he could get out of the envoy, there was something that dominated it all.

Like a whale among a pond of fishes.

Now that is something worth reporting back.

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