Chapter 482: Throwing a bait(1)

Alpheo sat in his tent, the heavy canvas walls fluttering slightly from the evening breeze, though the air inside remained thick with the scent of oil candles and the lingering musk of sweat coming from thousands of men.

He barely spared a glance at the map sprawled across the table before him, his hand resting against his forehead, fingers digging into his temple as if he could knead the frustration from his skull.

The bastards still hadn’t moved.

For a week now, every time his forces had pressed forward, they had simply retreated. The so-called lords of this rebellion—Niketas, Greogr, Lysandros, and Eurenis—tucked their tails and pulled back deeper into their holdings like rats scurrying for cover. Never standing, never fighting, never meeting him in the field. Just running.

Cowards.

The word hissed through his mind, his fingers curling into a fist. What use was all their pompous talk of noble defiance if they refused to take up the sword against him? They had raised their banners, had they not? Declared themselves warriors of the just cause? Then why did they flee like whipped dogs whenever his army so much as breathed in their direction?

But in their cowardice, they had doomed their own lands.

For the past week, the royal host had been busy turning every stretch of rebel-held land into a wasteland. They had plundered villages, emptied granaries, slaughtered and cooked livestock, and put every settlement they passed through to the torch. Smoke had become a constant companion on the horizon, the black pillars rising into the sky as the faithful companion to the ruin they left in their wake.

And everyone loved it.

The nobles rode through the devastation, giddy from the ease of it all, their saddlebags heavier with stolen wealth. The tribesmen, always eager for blood and plunder, had embraced the work with savage delight, treating the raids as both duty and sport. Even his own private army, men hardened by battle and bound to him by years of service, took to it like wolves let loose upon a defenseless flock.

It was, after all, what war often was to men like them—an opportunity.

No grand speeches, no noble pretenses, just simple, brutal profit.

For many of these men, war was not about honor or loyalty. It was about profit about power, about what could be taken from those too weak to hold onto it. It was why lords gathered their banners, why footmen eagerly enlisted. It was the loot—the promise of stolen riches, of land, of the kind of wealth that could never be earned in peacetime.

And yet, Alpheo felt nothing for it.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, his gaze fixed on the map but unfocused. He hated this waste of time.

He did not care for the looting. He did not care for the plunder. He did not care for the way his men reveled in the destruction, drunk on the ease of it all.

What he did care about was the war itself—ending it.

And every day spent burning these villages, every day spent pillaging, was another day wasted. Another day where the rebels slipped further into safety, another day where the other two princes—the real threats—were gathering their forces.

Oizen and Herculia would not wait forever.

While he wasted his time here, torching villages that held no real strategic value, they were sharpening their swords, mustering their armies, preparing for the moment when they would march against him.

I should be marching against them, he thought bitterly. Not wasting time on these miserable cowards.

But he had no choice. The rebels would not face him, so he had to force them to.The question however was how...

Alpheo dragged his gaze up from the map, eyes settling on Jarza, who stood across from him, arms crossed, observing him in silence. The candlelight flickered over the man’s face, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a quiet, knowing look that made Alpheo’s lip curl in irritation.

He was not alone in the tent.

Alongside Jarza stood Shahab, the old warrior as disciplined as ever, his presence solid and unshakable. Uninvited, yet not unexpected, he had brought his son along as well, the middle aged man standing just behind his father’s shoulder, watching and listening. Of course he did. Shahab was a man who thought ahead, a man who played the long game. No doubt he believed that having his son witness these war councils would put him in Alpheo’s good graces, ensuring that when the the man took over his place at Alpheo’s side would already be secured.

Alpheo exhaled slowly, before speaking, voice flat.

"Are you happy being right?"

Jarza didn’t so much as blink. "I would have gladly been wrong."

Alpheo snorted, pushing himself back against his chair, running a hand through his hair

. Wouldn’t we all.

He had misread them.

He had thought the nobles would come screaming down at them the moment their fields were set ablaze, that they would be forced to face him in open battle once they saw their wealth—their very sustenance—burning before their eyes. But no. They had done nothing. They had simply stood back and watched, retreating deeper inland like cowards, leaving their peasants to scatter and starve, their villages to be turned to cinders.

Alpheo had underestimated their patience.

He wouldn’t say it aloud—would never give Jarza or anyone else the satisfaction—but he understood now why they held back.

They weren’t simply licking their wounds, nor were they afraid.

They had other incentives to stay put.

The loss of this year’s harvest? The destruction of their villages? That would have been a crippling blow for any other lords. But these men—these rebels—had already accounted for that loss.

The wealth of the temples would cushion them.

Alpheo wasn’t stupid. He could see the shape of it clearly now. The great temples, those holiest of institutions, had deep coffers, filled with more gold than any noble house could hope to match. And though they remained quiet, though they played at neutrality, he had no doubt that many of them had sent their secret support to the rebels.

It made his blood simmer.

The temples were untouchable—for now. But once this rebellion was crushed, once their so-called noble defiance had been stamped out, once the traitors were rotting in the ground, then he would turn his attention to them.

Perhaps a priest or two, under the right persuasion—the right torture—would confess which temples had sent aid. Perhaps they would give him names, accounts, ledgers. Perhaps they would weep and beg and spill every secret they had.

And once he had proof... well.

It would be a shame if certain temples found themselves stripped of their wealth.

After all, traitors could not be allowed to prosper.

---------------------------

Alpheo exhaled, rubbing his temple as he looked over the map once more, before finally straightening. His voice, when he spoke, was measured, but laced with the irritation of a man forced to admit his own mistake.

"I misjudged them."

That got Jarza’s attention, as well as Shahab’s and his son Jared.

Alpheo continued, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table.

"I believed they would march south the moment we set their fields alight. That they would be forced to ride out in defense of their lands, of their people—and of their taxes. It is their duty, after all, to protect both. But here we are, a week into this campaign, and they haven’t moved an inch."

He sighed, tilting his head back for a moment before rolling his shoulders.

"So, I was wrong."

No one dared to comment on that.

"That means we need to discuss our next move, because while our soldiers may enjoy setting villages to the torch and stuffing their pockets with silver, we don’t have the luxury of wasting time here. The more we linger, the worse it gets for us. We need to decide—"

"Why not simply keep marching north?" Shahab’s voice cut through, calm and firm.

Alpheo let out a thoughtful hum, but shook his head. "That would put us in a fine mess."

He lifted his rod and tapped the map, outlining the stretch of land directly above them.

"If we continue north, we’ll be marching straight into their holdings, into a web of castles and fortresses that we do not control. It would mean allowing ourselves to be surrounded, trapped in a land where every pass, every hill, every bridge would be held by enemies. They wouldn’t need to fight us head-on—they could simply harass us, picking off lone detachments, starving us out, waiting until we were stretched too thin before closing in for the kill."

Shahab frowned. "Starve us? We’ve looted enough grain from these villages to keep marching. We have no shortage of food, and if necessary, we can change direction, pull back south whenever the situation demands it."

Shahab leaned over the table, tracing the northernmost part of the map with a calloused finger. "You say they aren’t moving, and you say they have no reason to move. Then they also have no reason to retreat further north. If we press forward, we force them into a decision they will either trespass onto Romelian holdings or giving us battle.

Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose.

Alpheo studied the map, drumming his fingers against the wooden table.

Unfortunately it would not be so easy

"You’re forgetting another possibility, Shahab. They don’t have to retreat into Romelian territory. They could just as easily take refuge in one of their castles."

Shahab huffed, crossing his arms. "Even better," he said with a smirk. "If they hole themselves up behind stone walls, we’ll know exactly where they are. We won’t have to chase them anymore. A siege means time, and time means hunger, disease. Let them rot in their own homes—sooner or later, they’ll break."

Alpheo sighed, shaking his head.

"No. That’s exactly what they want."

Shahab’s expression faltered. "What?"

Alpheo raised a hand and gestured toward the map.

"Every scout we’ve sent has returned with the same report—our enemies have as many men as we do, perhaps even more. They aren’t holding back because they lack soldiers. That’s not what’s keeping them from facing us."

He tapped his fingers against the wooden table, his frustration evident.

"No, their reason for avoiding battle is far more deliberate. They’re stalling. They’re waiting. Waiting for reinforcements. Waiting for others to join the fight. If we put ourselves in the position of besieging them, we do nothing but play into their hands. They gain time, and time is their greatest weapon right now."

Shahab exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly displeased but unable to argue the point. His arms remained crossed, his brows furrowed as he processed Alpheo’s words. After a long silence, he relented with a small nod.

"Very well..." he muttered.

Alpheo of course didn’t want to completely dismiss the man’s instincts, after all it was not rare for him to give out sounds opinions. He met Shahab’s gaze and gave a slight nod of reassurance.

"Your plan is sound—under different circumstances. It’s simple, effective. But in this situation, it’s too straightforward. We need something else."

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, before casting his gaze across the others in the tent.

"So, does anyone else have a better solution for our little situation?"