Chapter 568: A happy meal (2)

Chapter 568: A happy meal (2)

Unlike the towering brutes that came from his tribe ,Torghan was, in truth, still in the shadow of what he might one day become. His frame held the promise of size rather than its full delivery: strong, certainly, but lacking the mountainous bulk for which his kin were known.

He was after all but 19.

In height he stood below most of his tribesmen, and though his posture was proud, it bore the unmistakable signs of youth—not the reckless youth of inexperience, but the unfinished kind, like a statue only half-carved from stone.

Yet what Torghan lacked in brute mass, he made up for in terrifying efficiency. Most of his kills on the battlefield hadn’t been earned through sheer force or feral power, but rather through a simple, practical truth: his armor was leagues ahead of what the average rebel could pierce.

Forged in the forges of the Acheian noble Romelian family , paid for in advance by Alpheo himself, it was a marvel of plates and reinforced mail, fitted tightly to his body and polished until it gleamed with a dusky sheen under the sun. Against it, the long spears and hastily sharpened lances of the rebel levy troops snapped like dry reeds.

Rebels had broken against him like surf against a breakwater—not because he couldn’t be hurt, but because their weapons simply couldn’t touch him. The few lucky strikes that had landed glanced off with a hollow clang, as if they had hit a walking fortress.

Alpheo leaned forward on his elbows, the soft clink of his wine cup being set down the only sound in the tent for a moment. He watched Torghan with the glint of amused curiosity—like a teacher waiting for a student to finish their halting sentence.

“Want… husband,” he finally said slowly, grinding through the syllables like they were bone and gristle, “for… sister. Good man. Yes?”

There was a moment of pure silence—an almost comedic pause that floated in the warm air like a held breath. A few of the men around the table blinked, unsure if they’d heard him right. Even Egil stopped shoveling food into his mouth mid-bite.

But Alpheo, didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff, nor raise an amused brow. No—he leaned back slowly, fingers tenting beneath his chin, his expression settling into the smooth, polished stone of thought. The request wasn’t foolish. Not at all.

It was, in fact, shrewd.

Torghan and his people held their lands only by the crown’s grace, squatters under royal mercy, and mercy—Alpheo well knew—was a wine that soured quickly. If the court, which meant him, grew tired of them, if public sentiment shifted, if even a whisper of disloyalty rose… their exile would be swift. Or worse. And the tribes knew it. So what better way to secure their foothold than to graft themselves into the very roots of local nobility?

Marriage.

A tie not of treaty or contract, but of blood.

It was an elegant answer to an old question: how do you make people stop calling you a foreigner?

You marry their daughters. You make their grandsons carry your cheekbones.

Of course, no landed lord with a name polished over generations would eagerly offer his son or daughter to a brute with dirt still fresh from the steppes beneath her nails. But Alpheo didn’t need the old blood. He had something better: men he trusted , that in the future were to raise in rank. And some of them, well… were still unwed.

His eyes swept across the table like a predator choosing its next move. Then they stopped, perched like a hawk on a familiar figure.

Jarza.

The man looked up just in time to see the glint in Alpheo’s eye. His brows rose like drawbridges, a silent really? painted across his face. For a moment, he seemed ready to resist—but then his expression softened. Slowly, Jarza closed his eyes and gave a single nod.

Consent, silent and noble.

He knew what Alpheo was thinking. He wasn’t getting younger. He’d fought in three campaigns under his banner , had more scars than hairs on his chest, and—most importantly—no heirs to his name, or at least none that could be found . Time, as always, was hungry. And in truth, the idea of a young, healthy wife? It wasn’t unappealing.

Besides, Alpheo could sell ice to a fire. If he wanted this match to happen, it would happen, and his permission was more of a welcoming mat rather than the door.

Alpheo chuckled softly, turning back to Torghan.

He extended his hand with leisurely grace, the rings on his fingers catching the firelight as he pointed squarely at Jarza, his voice light but ceremonious.

“This one,” he said, eyes glinting. “Is he a good match?”

Torghan followed the direction of the prince’s finger with exaggerated slowness, as if unsure whether this was a trick or test. When his gaze landed on Jarza, his face split into a proud grin. With a firm nod and a thick accent, he declared, “Good man. Yes. Strong. Tall. Good.”

Then, to everyone’s mild surprise,Alpheo began to clap. Loudly. And sincerely. “Congratulations!” he beamed, clapping like he’d just witnessed a betrothal at a summer fair. “Good bride. Good husband!”

Around the table, a few chuckles escaped.

Alpheo, however having finished clapping , simply watched, quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his goblet as his thoughts dipped deeper into the waters of lineage and legacy.

Jarza’s children wouldn’t carry noble blood—at least not by the old reckoning. Born of a father raised from the mud and a mother from a tribe. No titles in their veins, no ancient banners hanging in the halls of their ancestors. Foreigners, both of them. Outsiders.

But blood, Alpheo mused, could be outweighed.

By the time those children would come of age, Jarza would be a man carved into the history books. His blade, his deeds, and the glory of this campaign would carry him far beyond the pedigree of some dusty crest. And more importantly, Alpheo had no intention of letting the nobility remain as it had been.

If he were to wear a crown—when he wore it—he would bring with it the Roman model. A nobility reshaped in ranks. Titles like High Marshal , as the Romelians called them or perhapse better yet title like , Dux.

It was a strong domeneering name, much better than simply High Marshal.

Rebellious territories would be given to loyal dogs with teeth, not the other way around.

Loyal nobles who answer to a rebel are more dangerous than rebellious nobles answering to a loyal head.

He glanced at Jarza again—still half-embarrassed and red-eared under Torghan’s congratulatory clapping—and gave a faint, amused smile.

The mood had grown lively with the announcement of marriage between Jarza and Torghan sister and the general ripple of amusement that had followed, but the prince, ever the conductor of his own grand orchestra, raised a hand gently to regain the rhythm.

“One man left,” he said, voice smooth and unhurried, yet with a note of finality that immediately hushed the murmurs. His eyes, like twin blades sheathed in charm, slid over the table and landed squarely on Lord Shahab.

The old lord, hunched slightly but with eyes still sharp as eagle’s talons, met the prince’s gaze without flinching. Before Alpheo could even open his mouth to speak, Shahab raised a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand and barked, “Don’t even try it.”

Alpheo’s lips curled into an entertained smirk, but he said nothing, letting the elder continue.

“If I’m to be rewarded,” Shahab muttered, adjusting the collar of his long robe with one hand while the other gestured vaguely, “then let it be through my grand-daughter. You’ve got nothing that you can give me ”

Alpheo gave a theatrical shrug of his shoulders, as if to say very well, have it your way. The rest of the table chuckled softly, not because of any insult, but because everyone in that tent knew there was no true animosity between the prince and the old noble. Their verbal jabs were like greeting between the two.

Within Alpheo’s inner circle, it was well-known how sharp-tongued Shahab could be. His tongue was iron wrapped in silk—abrasive when he chose, and he almost always chose, especially toward the prince. Yet no one doubted the strength of the bond between the two men. It had been forged not through flattery or pomp, but through a moment far more human and tender.

All of them remembered—some only in whispers, others firsthand—when Jasmine was in the final, swollen months of her pregnancy. That time when even the prince’s hands, so confident in war and rule, seemed uncertain when dealing with the matter of court.

Shahab had been there. His wisdom, rough-edged though it came, had been a steadying force.

So when Shahab dismissed Alpheo’s offer of reward, it wasn’t rejection—it was dignity.

And Alpheo, for all his pride and vision, could respect that.

And now, as he sat there surrounded by loyal men in a war just won, his thoughts could now move ahead of where his foot lay.

He was happy—or at least as happy as a man like him believed he could be. The sort of happiness that didn’t shout, but hummed like a hearthfire at dusk, quiet and steady. Around him, the murmurs of his retainers floated like smoke, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere: to the warm glow of his household, to Jasmine’s laughter ringing soft with that of Basil, to the cradle of a child who carried both his blood and hopes.

A family. A home. Companions in arms he trusted not with just his back but with the silence of long nights when victory was not yet assured.

Once, he had dreamed of all this in the mud, nameless and cold, chewing bitter roots and the taste of other men’s cruelty. He had sworn then—clutching his chest where pride refused to die—that if he ever climbed from that mire, he would build something better. And now, here he stood: high above the filth that tried to bury him, cloaked in the scent of triumph, surrounded by loyal hands and titles that once laughed at him.

There was steel beneath the satisfaction, of course—he had not forgotten how fast joy could curdle—but tonight, with the stars beginning to blink open over the canvas of his war tent, Alpheo allowed himself a rare indulgence: to believe that he had won more than a war.

He had won at life.