Chapter 525: Celebrations(2)

He felt the prince’s gaze before he saw it - that familiar, oppressive weight settling across his shoulders like a mantle of ice. For a brief, defiant moment, Robert met Alpheo’s eyes across the hall, his fingers tightening around the stem of his cup until his knuckles turned white. But the prince’s stare was unrelenting, a predator’s calm assessment of prey that had nowhere left to run.

The old lord was the one to look away first.

With deliberate slowness, he reached for a crust of bread, tearing off a piece with exaggerated care. The action was pure theater - a pathetic attempt to appear composed when every nerve in his body failed him. The bread turned to ash in his mouth, but he chewed mechanically, his eyes fixed on the whorls of the oak table before him.

Then came the scrape of a chair.

The hall’s merriment carried on, but not for those who noticed the prince rising from his seat.

Conversations wavered, eyes flickering toward him, tracking his steps as he wove through the long banquet table. Some feigned indifference, pretending to be occupied with their goblets or their plates, but others abandoned the pretense entirely, watching him openly.

Alpheo’s stride was unhurried. He was in no rush. There was no need for it.

Five, six seats away—Robert had not been placed far, but he had not been granted the dignity of true proximity either. A traitor had no right to a place of honor, but Alpheo did like having him put on display, perhapse just to have fun at the expense of Robert’s nerves .

When the prince reached his destination, he found himself beside Sir Edric, Jarza’s second-in-command. Edric noticed him immediately, stiffening in his seat before rising swiftly to his feet.

"My prince," he greeted with a quick bow of his head, his voice respectful but touched with surprise.

Alpheo offered a small, measured smile. "I apologize for disturbing your dinner, Sir Edric, but I’d like to take a seat for a few minutes to speak with my guest."

Edric hesitated, his gaze flickering between Alpheo and Robert before nodding. "Of course, my prince. I’ll take a walk around the camp, make sure everything is in order."

Alpheo reached out, clapping a hand on Edric’s shoulder before he could move away. "There’s no need," he said smoothly. "Stay. Take my seat until I’m done."

The knight hesitated again, clearly torn between protocol and the unexpected command.ù

Alpheo met his hesitation with a reassuring look. "It’s all right, Edric," he said, his tone calm, but laced with finality. "Sit."

Edric, after a brief moment of deliberation, nodded once. "As you will, my prince."

With that, Alpheo slid into the seat beside Robert, his presence casting a shadow over the man’s barely touched meal.

Alpheo settled into his chair with the languid grace of a predator at rest, one elbow propped on the table, his chin resting lightly against his knuckles. The torchlight caught the silver threads in his tunic as he turned toward Robert, his expression one of mild amusement—the look of a cat watching a mouse consider its final, futile escape.

"So," he began, his voice a velvet murmur beneath the hall’s raucous din, "does the feast meet your expectations, Lord Robert?I see you haven’t eaten much, does the foot not suit your tastes?"

Robert didn’t flinch. His fingers tightened briefly around his goblet before he set it down with deliberate care. "I knew you’d come," he muttered, his voice low enough that only Alpheo could hear. "Tell me, is this purely for your own amusement? Or have you actually deigned to bring purpose to this charade?"

Alpheo chuckled, the sound rich and unoffended. "Oh, I’m sure we’ll get to that," he said, waving a hand as if brushing away the very notion of malice. "For now, I’m merely seeking... perspective."

Robert arched a brow. "Perspective?"

"Indeed." Alpheo shifted slightly, angling himself more fully toward the disgraced lord. "Tell me—any opinions on last night?"

Robert exhaled through his nose, tearing off a piece of bread with more force than necessary. He chewed slowly, savoring the delay, before answering with dripping sarcasm. "Oh yes. Magnificent. Worthy of ballads, no doubt." His gaze swept the hall, where nobles toasted and laughed with drunken fervor. "Haven’t you heard as much already? A thousand times tonight?"

Alpheo’s smile didn’t waver. "I have. But there’s something uniquely satisfying about hearing it from

you

."

Robert snorted, reaching for his wine again—not to drink, but to have something to hold. "Get to the point"

The prince sighed, as if disappointed by his guest’s lack of patience.

"When this war began," he murmured, "when it became clear we’d be facing not one, but

three

armies, my wife and her esteemed grandfather both urged me to seek terms with Herculia." His fingers traced the rim of his goblet absently. "A sensible path, they said. Pragmatic. One fewer enemy to fight.You can’t take them all...."

Robert’s eyes flickered with reluctant interest. "And yet here we are."

"Here we are," Alpheo agreed. His smile sharpened. "I declined, as you can surely see"

Robert let out a dry laugh. "Is there a purpose to this reminiscence? Or are you simply reveling in your own cleverness? Is there even a point to this idle talk?Don’t you have more important things to do with your time?"

For a moment, Alpheo simply studied him—the lines of tension in Robert’s jaw, the way his fingers flexed around his cup, the barely restrained bitterness in his tone. Then, with a slow exhale, the prince straightened.

"If you’d prefer not to speak as old acquaintances," he said, his voice still soft, but edged now with something colder, "then by all means—let us speak as enemies instead.Some prefer approaching things with touch or instead prefer brutness and distaste"

The shift was subtle. The smile didn’t vanish, not entirely—but the warmth behind it did. What remained was something calculated, deliberate, like the gleam of a blade being slowly drawn from its sheath.

Alpheo’s voice was a blade wrapped in silk as he leaned closer, the flickering torchlight carving shadows across his face.

"With yesterday’s work," he murmured, "the only true threat lies broken in the dirt."

Robert didn’t flinch, but Alpheo noted the minute tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers pressed just slightly harder against the table.

"Herculia?" Alpheo continued with a dismissive wave. "A child’s army. Less than Two thousand green boys playing at war. And the rebels?" His lips curled. "Still pounding their heads against Florium’s walls like moths with fire " He sat back, the picture of casual triumph. "By all accounts, the hard part is done."

Then, with deliberate slowness, he braced his forearms against the table, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"And yet—despite all this celebration, all this

victory

—I find myself utterly furious about your little... telltale."

Robert’s breathing hitched—just once—before steadying.

"Oh yes," Alpheo purred, his fingertip circling the rim of his goblet like a vulture coasting on a thermal—slow, inevitable. His voice was silk unraveling over a razor. "I haven’t forgotten. That well-placed whisper. That

timely

warning." A pause, just long enough for Robert to remember how lungs worked. "The little betrayal that stole from me the pleasure of a clean slaughter."

His smile was a scalpel’s edge, honed to a cruel, gleaming point.

"You cost me men." A sip of wine, deliberate. "You cost me time." The goblet met the table with a

click

that echoed like a coffin lid settling. "And for what? To delay the inevitable?" He tilted his head, a predator feigning curiosity at the twitch of prey. "No. I think you’ll be my first...

demonstration

."

Alpheo leaned in, close enough for Robert to catch the scent of iron on his breath.

"I will have you quartered before the capital gates—not at dawn, when the crowd is drowsy and pious, but at high noon, when the sun is hungry and the mob is thirsty.A herald will sing your crimes like a lullaby. The people will

cheer

as your tendons snap. Men will toast your agony with their children on their shoulders. And those children?"

His thumb brushed Robert’s cheek, almost tender.

"They’ll laugh as the dogs fight over your fingers, for you will receive no burial."

Robert exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze fixed on some distant point across the hall—somewhere beyond the torchlight, beyond the laughter, as if already measuring the distance to the grave. When he spoke, his voice was a hollow thing, scraped raw.

"Is this my last supper, then?"

Alpheo didn’t blink. "No. It’s not." he sighed

"I’m

merciful

enough to grant you one final meal with your family before the executions." He leaned in, close enough to count the frantic beats in Robert’s throat. "And because I’m feeling particularly generous that day, I’ll even let you watch your son die before you join him, a son should never see a father die in such a manner"

The silence between them stretched, taut as a garrote wire.

Around them, the feast roared on—oblivious, drunken, triumphant. Goblets clashed. Meat dripped onto plate. A minstrel sang some bawdy tune about glory.

And at its edges, death waited—patient as a shadow for his due.

Robert’s breath hitched, his gaze flickering past Alpheo’s shoulder—seeking, searching,

begging

.

And there he was.

Seated among the lesser nobles, his son. Not a boy. Not a child clutching at innocence. A man who had stood on a battlefield, whose hands had known the weight of a sword and the slick of blood yesterday. And yet now, under the weight of Alpheo’s game, he looked small.

For days—no, weeks—he had begged to see his father whe he had heard of what he’d done.

And every time, Alpheo had denied him. Not out of cruelty, but calculation. A slow starvation of hope.

Robert’s eyes snapped back to Alpheo, burning with something wild, something feral.

"You wouldn’t," he rasped, the words fraying at the edges.

Alpheo held his gaze. Let the moment stretch. Let the fear

twist

.

Then he exhaled, slow—the way a wolf might before the kill.

"Guess again.... you know better than to be on that"