Chapter 653: Inauguration(1)

Chapter 653: Inauguration(1)

As Alpheo had envisioned, when his soldiers had gone to apprehend and hang the guilty, the outcry came swiftly and predictably. The moment the nooses tightened and the bodies of the condemned swung before the gathered regiments, their lord—whose banner those men had marched under—had come storming into Alpheo’s command tent.

It wasn’t grief, of course. Lords like him didn’t weep for soldiers unless their deaths affected ledger or legacy. What burned at the men was the humiliation—soldiers from their contingent had been hanged publicly, in front of thousands. And worse, the punishment had been dealt without their consent, as if they were just another bystander in their own domain.

It was as if declaring that they led bandits in battle.

The crime itself—raping some laborer women—was not what concerned the prince. Gods knew, in his mind, such things were as common and expected as lice in bedding.

To many in the army, rape and looting were still viewed as informal spoils of war. The price of a soldier’s loyalty wasn’t just pay—it was the chance to take what they wanted when steel won the day. This had always been the quiet understanding between crown and sword: fight well, and the rules will look away when victory comes.

Yet no matter how many complaints were uttered, no matter how much the lord protested that the crimes had merely been “unfortunate accidents of proximity”—the usual euphemism for rape in the camp—none of it reached Alpheo. Or rather, it did, and it was ignored with the same indifference one might give to a fly buzzing in a tent.

A single glance from him, cold and quiet, had silenced the lord’s rant. No shouted rebuttal. No drawn sword. Just a look. And the weight behind that look was the sort that made men feel their blood slow.

There was no need to explain why the request for clemency was denied. Everyone in the room understood. Alpheo’s reputation was not built on sermons or soft forgiveness. His soldiers followed him because they feared disappointing him more than they feared dying. And the lords, whether they admitted it or not, knew that Alpheo could have one of their heads in a sack before nightfall if it served his purpose, his hands, after all, were already bathed in the blood of royals, so why would killing a noble give him pause?

Still, the whole uproar had never truly been about justice, not in Alpheo’s mind.

It wasn’t outrage at the immorality of rape or compassion for the women who had fled the camp in tears and blood.

It was logistics.

The women had been workers in the construction of siege trenches, fortifications, and supply stations. Their presence was essential to a war effort that was already teetering under the weight of time.

But after the assaults, panic spread.

Entire work crews vanished overnight.The already-delayed timetables for the walls could not slip further.

The problem wasn’t what had happened—it was when and to whom it had happened.

Alpheo didn’t care what men did when a city burned and banners flew above broken walls. But this wasn’t a captured city. This was a siege. A carefully structured, drawn-out affair where time and resources were worth more than blood. Disrupting the labor force was stupid and an insult to the crown.

And stupidity, in Alpheo’s view, was the greatest sin of all.

That was why the men had been hanged. Not for justice. Not for morality. But because their impulses had cost him time—and time was the only currency he couldn’t loot from an enemy corpse.

The punishment, brutal as it was, proved remarkably effective. The sight of the guilty men swinging from the gallows, their lifeless bodies dragged through the camps for all to see, left a lasting impression. Coupled with Alpheo’s reputation the message was clear and resounding: there would be no tolerance for disorder.

But Alpheo, ever the pragmatist, knew fear alone was a brittle tool. Soldiers idle too long were bound to grow restless, and restlessness had a tendency to ferment into disobedience, even rebellion. So, alongside the gallows, he provided distraction. Purpose. Outlet.

And that, as it turned out, worked just as well.

To bleed off the steam that came from weeks of stagnation, Alpheo had organized a series of competitions across the army encampments—games designed to keep the men active, spirited, and too exhausted by day’s end to stir up trouble. The promise of coin for the victors and decorated badges of merit gave the contests a seriousness that surprised even the officers. Boredom turned into bragging rights. Apathy into ambition.

There were tug-of-war matches, where entire units faced off with thick ropes and strained to drag each other across a drawn line in the dust, the cheers echoing through the camp like battle cries. There were endurance races—brutal one-kilometer sprints with full battle gear, the weight of mail and weaponry grinding into skin as each man fought to be first. Wrestling circles emerged, surrounded by jeering comrades, where the victor was the one who could force his opponent out of the chalk-drawn ring.

But none of them entertained the prince quite like the Last Man Standing.

This contest was absurd, brutal, and somehow utterly enthralling.

Two men would place their foreheads against the end of a wooden staff planted in the ground and spin around it for thirty dizzying seconds. Then, still reeling, they would grab padded sticks and try to knock each other out of a circle or send their opponent sprawling to the ground. To prevent serious injury, they wore training armor—padding and steel—but the bruises, both to the body and the ego, were plentiful. Watching seasoned warriors stumble around like drunkards before clumsily swinging at one another brought roaring laughter across the camp.

The games did what speeches and threats never could. They gave the men something to look forward to.

And so, the days ground on—sweaty, stubborn, and filled with the relentless clatter of hammers on timber—until, at last, the labor was done.

One month and two week. That’s all it had taken.

Alpheo stood atop the central rampart, wind tugging gently at the dark folds of his cloak as he gazed across the great circuit of walls encircling their siege camp like the ribs of a slumbering beast. The midday sun painted everything in hues of gold and dust, and from his vantage point, he could see the full scope of their efforts—two great wooden walls, each four meters tall and running five kilometers in length, stretching over the place like the spine of some war god.

They had done it.

The inner wall bristled with palisades, hastily sharpened logs jutting up like teeth, meant to turn any breach into a blood-soaked bottleneck. The outer wall was cleaner—built first, sturdier—and designed with clear lines of sight for archers . It was the anvil, and the troops inside would be the hammer.

Alpheo let out a slow breath, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword as his gaze drifted outward toward the empty horizon.

Perhaps I overestimated their mustering time, he mused, watching the rolling fields sway beneath the breeze. He’d expected to be fighting for his life by now. But the enemy had yet to appear. No scouts reported movement. No dust clouds on the horizon. Just… stillness.

He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Gods be damned,” came a familiar voice beside him, “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be the poor bastard who tries to storm this place.”

Egil had ridden up silently, mounted on his usual pale gray charger, eyes squinting in appreciation at the finished works. He’d been a vocal skeptic at first, calling the construction a waste of time and good men. But now, the admiration in his voice was undeniable.

“I feel like we could take on an army twice our size and laugh while doing it.” He gestured toward the broad wooden gates set at three points along the outer wall. “As long as they’re foolish enough to attack head-on, I’ll be riding out the back gate and straight into their flank.”

Alpheo glanced sideways at him, a smirk twitching at his lips. “So, you’ve finally figured out why I had them build three gates.”

Egil shrugged with a grin. “Takes me a while to warm up to genius.”

Behind them, Jarza snorted, leaning against the butt of his spear. “Genius? You? The only thing you’ve ever been quick with is the brothel tab.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Still, even a dull blade can stab if it’s pointed in the right direction.”

Egil grinned wider, unbothered. “You wound me, Jarza. But I’ll take it—better a dull blade in the fight than a sharp one on the rack.”

Asag stepped forward with a more grounded concern.

“It’s an impressive defense,” he said slowly, eyes scanning the wide distance between towers, “but there’s a lot of ground to cover. Too much. If the enemy picks a weak spot, finds just one thin strip of defenders… we could be overrun before we can respond. And don’t forget—we’re not just expecting one army. We’ve got two enemies to worry about.” he said as he looked at the enemy capital

Alpheo didn’t seem shaken. In fact, he almost looked amused.

“That’s not a problem,” he replied calmly, turning toward them. “I’ve planned for that too.”

He pointed toward the narrow roads running behind each wall segment. “Every side has four carts ready and easy to turn sideways. If any section looks like it’s about to break, all they need to do is block the gap with the carts. Instant chokepoint. The enemy will be forced to come through in single file, and our archers on the walls will have a shooting gallery.”

He tapped the railing with a knuckle, thoughtful. “And as for the idea of us being overrun—let’s not get carried away. One of the enemy armies we’re meant to be worried about? They’ve been under siege for a month now. They weren’t preparing for offense. They’ve been huddling behind their own walls, building siege towers and hoping their supplies last.”

Alpheo turned back toward the horizon, his voice low and steady. “Tell me, how many ladders do you think they have, hmm? How many siege weapons? How many of their men even know what it’s like to attack a fortified position instead of defending one?”

There was silence.

“Exactly,” he concluded. “The only real threat is the relief army—and even they will have a harder time than we will. We have preparation. We have control. And if they dare to march into this, we’ll see just how prepared they really are.”

The group was quiet for a moment, letting the confidence of their commander settle over them like a warm cloak. The walls felt taller now. The wind more favorable.

Then, Egil scratched his beard and leaned forward in his saddle, eyes fixed on the towers ahead.

“Well,” he said with a smirk, “if we die here, at least it’ll make one hell of a story, died besieged while besieging.”

Jarza rolled his eyes. “Only you could think of something like that .”

”As much as I am happy to idly converse with you, I believe we have somewhere to go,” Alpheo then said as he trotted forward with his horse, leaving the others behind.

”And where is that?” Egil asked following behind

”To inaugurate our new toys…” Alpheo said excitedly as he pushed his horse on a full run, convinced that in a few minutes they would all share his elation.