Chapter 660: Ending the game(1)

Chapter 660: Ending the game(1)

“Well,” Alpheo muttered, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood atop the rampart, eyes scanning the northern horizon, “I didn’t expect that to actually work.”

The scout who had delivered the report gave a respectful nod before retreating, leaving Alpheo alone with Jarza, who still bore the hardened tension of a man expecting a sword to whistle past his head at any moment.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Alpheo continued, casting a sidelong glance at his companion. “We’ve broken the Herculeians’ only real hope of saving their capital—crushed it with a few piles of burning wood. It’s almost… disappointing.”

He exhaled, then chuckled without humor, gazing at the wall of timber they had built

“A princely legacy undone not with a siege or a sword, but with a torch and a trick.”

Jarza frowned, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh. “Wouldn’t have been so bad to give battle, though, would it?” he said, his voice rough and candid as ever. “The men were high-strung all morning. Armor on, blades sharp, bows drawn. And now this? I’ve half a mind to call it the quietest victory I’ve never seen.”

“I know,” Alpheo admitted as he began walking along the rampart, motioning for Jarza to follow. Below them, the bustle of the camp was already shifting—tension bleeding into fatigue, the sharp discipline of preparation relaxing now that the immediate threat had ebbed. Messengers darted through the ranks, spreading the word to stand down. “But let’s not forget—we would’ve been caught between two armies. Ours may be strong, but not invulnerable. Even with the advantage, being pinched like that…” He shook his head. “It was too great a gamble.”

Jarza followed him, boots thudding softly against the packed dirt. “Maybe. Still, the walls we built would’ve held. And I doubt the Herculeians had the stomach for a real fight. They’ve been losing since they met us in the field”

“They may not have had the stomach,” Alpheo replied, “but desperation breeds madness, and madness has ruined many well-planned wars.”

His voice was low, contemplative, as he looked once more toward the smoke curling over the timber fortifications. The horizon remained empty, but still, his eyes searched, wary and watchful.

“And besides,” he added, “this is better. The city falls without a single man of ours needing to die for it. The final wall before the entire princedom collapses… topples on its own.”

Jarza tilted his head, lips quirking. “Last I checked, the city’s still standing”

“For now,” Alpheo replied with a dry smile. “But not for long. We’ve just broken the camel’s back. They don’t know it yet—but it’s done.”

“Oh?” Jarza raised a brow. “And how exactly do you plan to make use of that? The men inside the city,if I recall,don’t exactly have a bird’s eye view of the Herculeian host retreating into the hills.”

“No, they don’t,” Alpheo admitted, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. “But… perhaps we can fix that.”

Jarza’s brow furrowed further. “Fix that how?”

Alpheo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned away from the horizon, his cloak catching the wind as he stepped down from the rampart. His smile deepened—but it was a strategist’s smile, the kind that came with a hundred tiny cogs already turning behind the eyes.

——————-

“Where is the messenger?” Lord Cretio asked, his voice sharp, clipped, and full of iron as he climbed the worn stone steps that led to the top of the rampart.

His boots struck each stair with authority, the clink of steel against stone echoing faintly in the silent air of the fortress. Every pair of eyes that met his along the way quickly turned away—no one wished to linger under the lord’s glare when the weight of defeat already hung heavy on the walls.

“He is currently waiting just outside the gate, my lord,” replied one of the watchmen, bowing slightly as he moved aside to let Cretio pass.

Cretio stopped mid-step, his brows drawing together like stormclouds over a ridgeline. “Outside?” he repeated. “Why in damnation is he still outside? I gave the order to open the gate, did I not?”

The watchman, young and clearly uncomfortable, nodded quickly. “We did open the gate, my lord. But… the messenger refused to enter unless—unless you publicly vow that he will come to no harm upon crossing the threshold.”

Cretio’s face twisted in something between disbelief and scorn.

“What nonsense is this?” he growled. “Have the Yarzat truly sunk so deep into dishonor that they cannot recognize it in others? Does he not know the laws of war? A messenger, once bearing the white sash, is protected even by beasts and brigands.”

He turned his eyes toward the gate tower as if the insult lingered there physically.

“To demand an oath of safety is an insult in itself,” Cretio muttered, voice low and simmering with contempt. “As if I were some petty warlord with blood-mad dogs at my gate, not a man of station and code.”

Yet even as his pride bristled, he did not delay further. With a sweep of his cloak, he strode across the wallwalk toward the portion of the battlement that overlooked the road.

The wind greeted him at the top, tugging at his mantle and carrying with it the stench of smoke—distant still, but unmistakable. He narrowed his eyes.

Just beyond the open gates, standing alone beneath the overcast sky, was a solitary figure on horseback. The man sat stiffly in the saddle, armored but unarmed, with a long white sash bound around one arm in the manner of envoys. His other arm clutched something tightly to his side—an object wrapped in a heavy cloth, its shape impossible to distinguish from afar.

Cretio leaned forward, resting his gloved hands on the cool stone of the parapet. The sunlight broke intermittently through the clouds, flashing across the rider’s helm, glinting for a heartbeat like a dagger’s point.

The horse stamped the earth, restless, but its rider remained unmoved, unwavering, as if made of the same cold stone as the walls themselves.

Cretio’s eyes narrowed further, trying to guess at what the rider carried. A letter? A gift? A threat disguised in civility?

“Send word down to the gatehouse,” he said without turning. “I will give the vow. Let it be known that this man rides under the protection of war’s old customs, and if any dare raise blade or hand against him within my walls, I will see their arms nailed to the gate myself.”

The guards bowed and rushed to obey.

“Rider of Yarzat,” Lord Cretio’s voice rang out clear across the battlements, carried by the wind and sharpened by pride. “I vow, in the name of the Gods and the blood of my ancestors, that you are safe to enter these walls. No harm shall befall you.”

The gate creaked open as if to underscore his words—thick oaken planks grinding against iron hinges, letting a thin ray of light fall outward onto the stone path beyond. The silence that followed was stiff and expectant. Yet the rider made no move.

Lord Cretio soon repeated his words and yet the rider remained where he was, a lone figure beneath the gray sky, unmoving atop his restless steed. Then, with deliberate calm, he lifted the object in his arm—a long, black-lacquered speaking trumpet—and brought it to his lips.

The wind shifted. The man’s voice, amplified by the trumpet, echoed like thunder beneath the walls.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” the rider began, the tone as mocking as it was ceremonious. “But I had to be sure that my ears did not deceive me—that a man who serves a snake and a coward could even speak the word ‘honor’ without choking on it.”

Gasps and murmurs rippled across the walls. But the rider went on, unbothered, unmoved.

“You may close your gate again, my lord, for I would sooner step into a pit of vipers than into a city ruled by lies. I will not enter your den, but my words shall enter it just fine.”

The horse shifted beneath him, but the messenger sat like a statue, the trumpet pressed to his lips, his voice booming across the stone ramparts.

“Hear me, brave soldiers of Herculia! Men of the wall! Defenders of hearth and kin!” he cried. “You have stood resolute under fire, you have watched your streets burn, and yet you did not falter. My prince—yes, your enemy—bids me commend you for your valor. Even he, who now lays siege to your gates, cannot deny the spirit you have shown.”

Cretio’s jaw tightened. His hands gripped the cold stone before him.

“But I must speak a hard truth, for your courage deserves no deception. You hold fast still, because you believe your prince rides to your rescue. But alas—” the rider’s voice dropped, quieter but colder, more bitter than steel, “—your prince has turned.”

The trumpet’s echo died out briefly as a stunned hush fell over the soldiers listening above.

“The man who would call himself your sovereign has seen our banners, measured our strength—and chosen the better part of cowardice. He has turned his army around and left you to die within these walls.”

Several of the defenders on the wall took a step back, as if struck. A murmur rolled through the ranks like an underground tremor.

“The fires you saw last night were no accident. That light in the sky—so bright, so terrible—it was no signal to you. It was a funeral pyre. A pyre for your salvation. He burned the last chance you had.”

A few arrows loosed from the wall, hissing through the air—but they fell far short of the rider’s horse, thudding uselessly into the dirt. The messenger did not flinch. His eyes did not leave the battlements.

“Shoot if you must, noble fools. Let your arrows dance in the wind. But I am not here to fight you—I am here to tell you the truth.”

He stood tall in his saddle, voice rising again as if calling upon the Gods themselves to hear him.

“You stand alone. Your prince has forsaken you. Your country lies in ash. Your courage is wasted on ghosts. But you need not die in vain. You need not let your children be slaughtered when the walls fall, as they surely will.”

“I come bearing an offer of mercy, not mockery. Lay down your arms, open your gates, and my prince—Alpheo of Yarzat, first of his name, rightful hand of justice—will spare your lives. Yours, and those of the innocents within. The baker, the blacksmith, the child at the window. All shall be spared.”

“But refuse this mercy, and you will find no quarter. Refuse it, and you will burn as surely as your hopes did last night. There will be no third message. There will be no second chance.”

He paused now, lowering the trumpet, letting the wind and silence carry the weight of his words across the high walls of the doomed city.

“Choose wisely, soldiers of Herculia.” he finished with “Your loyalty has been admirable. But loyalty to a traitor is still betrayal. You may yet become heroes of a new dawn—or corpses beneath its rising light.”

With that, he gave a slight pull to the reins and turned his horse away from the gates. The beast whinnied and trotted slowly down the path, leaving only a trail of hoofprints behind.