Chapter 638: Achievements on the colonial frontier

"I suppose this calls for a cheer," Alpheo murmured, his voice smooth as still water, the faint curve of his lips forming the practiced smile that those who knew him well had long since learned to recognize—not joy, but calculation. Not warmth, but the glint that comes from the pleasure of a bet delivering results.

Without waiting for a reply, he reached for the decanter of cider—amber-gold and chilled from the stone cellar—and poured it into two finely chased cups until they brimmed. He passed one to the man standing before him, the bearer of the day’s favorable tidings.

Aron accepted the cup with a low, respectful bow, his expression composed, his movements measured. He didn’t flinch at the prince pouring the drink himself, though any courtier would’ve stammered at the breach of decorum.

Aron had served at Alpheo’s side long enough to understand the rules that governed these moments.

When the prince worked, his chambers became his war table, his sanctuary, and his forge—and in that sanctum, silence reigned unless broken by necessity.

No servants lingered. No sycophants loitered. Even the squires were gone—ever since Ratto had been reassigned to Lord Egil’s command, the post had remained empty. And Alpheo, as always, adapted—arming himself when needed, pouring his own drinks.

Though perhapse that came from the man’s natural paranoia at being poisoned.

"To the future," Alpheo said at last, raising his cup slightly.

Aron met the prince’s gaze and returned the gesture, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that might’ve been a smile.

"To the future," he echoed, and together, they drank—till the last drop.

The reason behind the quiet toast and the prince’s muted celebration was not some simple courtly success or petty rivalry won. No—this was a matter of far greater consequence.

Word had crossed the sea from SaltHold just the night before, a dispatch carried swift across the waves and placed into the prince’s hands before the ink had fully dried. The campaign in the lands of the Voghondai was over.

And it had ended in complete triumph.

The last flickering embers of DuskWindai resistance had been stamped out.

The entire homeland of the Voghondai had finally been taken back with the previous holders now in captivity.

And that meant only one thing: the next wave of settlers would be greenlit to leave through Salt Hold to settle onto the Crownland

But the good news had not ended there.

Sevarim’s report, terse and clean as always, bore another matter: An alliance .

Though the pact was not bound by any military obligation—no soldiers, no blood, no oaths of war—its implications were nothing short of revolutionary. It gave Alpheo a powerful new tool, an allied semi-colonial nation.

With the Chorsi’s acceptance came the chance to reshape new trade routes.

He envisioned it already: the Chorsi moving through the inland valleys, bearing trinkets of silver, bolts of fine cotton, iron tools, and sweet fruits from Yarzat. Each gift would not only dazzle but tempt. Tempt the hill tribes to forsake their isolation in exchange for connection—to become nodes in a Crown-backed mercantile web stretching from the surf to the deep rivers. A confederation not of conquest, but of commerce.

A much-needed alternative since Alpheo’s other expeditions to other tribes had all met with failures.

Of course, Alpheo knew better than to let the Chorsi stand alone.

To ensure the strength and stability of this rising trade block, he would subtly bind other nearby tribes to them , to the Chorsi to fund a tribal federation.

The result would be a Yarzatian semi-colonial sphere of influence.

Of course, that would mean receiving fewer settlers from the tribal lands. However, luckily, another road to get more settlers could be found in the key to Chorsi’s success in taking back their land.

The vision was clear: when the confederation of tribes Alpheo, was slowly piecing together took shape , they would use that borderland that was now Chorsi land as a launch point. Swift, brutal strikes across the Sultanate frontier.

And then, the human spoils of war carried westward, back through the Chorsi lands and down toward SaltHold.

Alpheo lowered his cup, the sweet burn of cider lingering just briefly on his tongue, before he cast a long glance back at Aron—who had not moved an inch, waiting with the stoicism of a man long-accustomed to the prince’s sudden pivots from celebration to statecraft.

"Aron," Alpheo said, his voice like velvet over steel, "I want you to begin immediate preparations to outfit our new friends.They’ll need fresh weaponry. And armor, proper mail, enough to equip 400 men. Take the oldest stock we have."

He set the cup down with a soft clink and turned his gaze to the fire, eyes narrowing slightly as if reading flames like maps.

"From what it is written in the report, the DuskWindai will retaliate," he murmured. "And when they do, the Chorsi need to hold. Not just for their own sake—but for ours. If the confederation is to take root, it needs a trunk to build around. The Chorsi must become a symbol. They need to be seen as warriors worth rallying behind... and worth avoiding conflict with."

He moved toward the great desk near the hearth, retrieving the opened letter from SaltHold that had sparked the toast. His fingers ran down the page, reading again the neat lines Sevarim had written—details about the Chorsi’s terrain, their militias, and their lack of cohesive structure in battle. A people brave, but unprepared. That would not do.

"Send it all under my seal," Alpheo continued, "and make sure it arrives before the snowline cuts the eastern pass."

He paused, one brow lifting.

"Oh," he added with a slow grin, "and tell the governor of SaltHold that his potatoes are safe."

Aron blinked once, clearly unsure if this was a jest.

"Send a pigeon immediately. And a ship. Inform him that the potato ban is lifted with immediate effect. "

He walked back to the window, looking out at the garden of the court.

"Oh, and one more thing," he said without turning. "Two hundred footmen. Good ones. Send them to SaltHold. They’re to reinforce the garrison at the fortress. And tell Valen not to bother writing requests. Just send a list of what he needs. We’ll fill it. If we’re to cradle this alliance until it learns to walk, it won’t be by asking permission every time someone sneezes."

Aron gave a respectful nod, already making mental notes of every dispatch, seal, and ledger to be drawn up before midnight.

Aron’s mouth parted slightly, the way it did when a thought had long formed but wrestled with the fear of its own weight. He held it for a moment, tasting its boldness, then spoke.

"If I may be so brazen, Your Grace..." he began carefully, hands still folded behind his back, "what is to be done with the new settlers?"

Alpheo turned from the window, eyes narrowing slightly, not in irritation but in recollection—as though something important had just knocked politely at the door of his memory. He let out a soft chuckle, amused at himself.

"Ah—of course," he said, waving a hand. "Send someone to inform Torghan that he will be hosting one thousand and five hundred new tribesfolk on his lands, with the Crown’s help to maintain them."

He walked to the edge of the hearth and picked up a sealed scroll from the mantle, weighing it in his palm.

"And make sure he hears the good news too—his father has triumphed. The campaign succeeded. Let the young bear have his pride," he added with a rare softness.

Aron gave a short nod, but did not yet turn to leave. Instead, he remained still, the same way he did before raising matters that would irritate lesser men—or perhaps even Alpheo himself.

"That will be done at once," Aron said, then hesitated just enough to make the pause feel intentional. "Though, if I may... raise a small point?"

Alpheo arched a brow—high and sharp like a falcon’s wing. "You may."

Aron cleared his throat delicately. " I fear the... visibility of settling the captives there may cause more than discomfort."

"You fear retaliation," Alpheo said, a slight frown forming as he just realised that the two tribes had a bad history between them.

"I do," Aron replied. "We are planning to settle the same people who caused them great sorrows, forcing them to a famine that was evaded through our helps. I believe mockery would be the lightest of problems that will arise."

Alpheo said nothing at first. His fingers drummed against the side of his cup. In his mind, he quietly admitted the oversight.

"And more," Aron went on, respectfully but firmly. "According to Sevarim’s report, the bulk of those taken in were women and children. The men, most likely the ones who would have formed their levies, either fled or were killed. We cannot expect soldiers rom them, not for years."

Alpheo’s frown deepened, and his gaze shifted to the darkening window.

"Do you have a suggestion, then?" he asked, voice calm but edged

Aron did not flinch. "I do, Your Grace."

He stepped forward, speaking with the confidence of a man who had rehearsed the thought through sleepless nights.

"The Voghondai, as it stands, pay a tax of seven percent on their agricultural output—an amount that was halved from the current tax rate in exchange for providing men to your armies." He paused just enough to ensure his words settled. "But the new settlers—women, children, wounded remnants—they will not offer warriors for a long while, perhaps a decade or more."

He clasped his hands behind his back again, continuing with the calm conviction of a steward presenting hard but necessary truths.

"Since the Crown must now sustain them until they can feed themselves, and since they cannot yet serve in arms... then let them serve as farmer."

He raised his chin slightly, though not arrogantly. "I propose we impose a twenty-five percent tax on their agricultural output, fixed for the next fifteen years. By then, the boys will be of age, and you will have a new levy to draw from. Until then, they pay for their place in the Princedom."

Alpheo leaned back in his chair. He tapped his fingers together slowly, eyes narrowed in thought.

It was a very good proposal.

If their blood would not be offered in war, then their toil would have to suffice. The Crown policy of settling lands was no charity after all.

He nodded once.

"Done," he said simply.

Aron gave a low bow, the motion smooth and precise.

"If there is nothing more, Your Grace, I will take my leave and begin the arrangements."

Alpheo waved a hand in permission, and Aron turned without further ceremony

As his figure passed through the double doors and disappeared into the outer corridor, Alpheo watched the space he left behind. A faint smile curled at the corner of his lips—not the political one this time, but something smaller. Warmer.

Perhaps a knighthood with some villages,

he mused,

would be a good reward for him, he has been quite useful....