Chapter 878: Augustine halls(4)

After the most unpleasant surprise the little shit of an emperor had gifted him, one that had cost Alpheo

four thousand silverii

,

the prince was more than a little curious to see how the coin would be spent.

Last thing he foreseen was to be

shaken down

in a foreign court, least of all by a boy barely a bit above half his age who’d wrapped himself in imperial rhetoric and puppy-eyed gratitude. Never before, as far as he knew, had one nation not only come to another’s rescue, but been

bullied

into opening its purse for the privilege.

And that burned like bad wine.

Especially since, just months ago, he’d lectured his own men about restraint, about building for the future, about the virtue of saving for leaner day.

That sermon had aged like milk under the sun.

Still, credit where it was due, the little bastard hadn’t forgotten who’d pulled his dynasty from the pit. Mesha had gone out of his way to smooth things over, his "apology" wrapped in honeyed gestures and imperial courtesy. Alpheo was lodged in a wing of the palace that had once hosted emperors, fed on gold plates, and attended to as though

he

wore the purple.

And that, apparently, meant being treated like a living god.

Two servants, no, better yet

ornaments

, had been assigned to him. Women so perfectly sculpted that even the marble statues lining the hallways might’ve wept from envy. Their dresses clung to them like dew on glass, veils so thin they seemed an afterthought they threw after birth, their every step designed to draw a man’s gaze like a magnet.

One stood beside him, waving a great palm leaf in slow, rhythmic strokes that stirred the humid summer air. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her bracelets chiming softly with every motion. The other seemed utterly adrift. Every service she offered was politely declined, and she was running out of ideas fast.

"Would my lord desire wine?" she asked, bowing so low her hair nearly brushed the floor.

"No."

"A massage, perhaps? You have traveled long, noble one."

"No."

"Cold water? Honeyed fruit?"

Still no.

Her confusion was almost endearing. Alpheo could tell she wasn’t used to

refusal

. Romelian nobles likely snapped their fingers for pleasure as casually as others did for bread. The girl fidgeted, biting her lip, and glanced at the other servant for guidance.

Then, with the courage of a soldier charging a fortress, she reached for a bowl of grapes on the table. She plucked one delicately from its stem, holding it up between her fingers like a jewel, and stepped closer.

"Perhaps..." she began hesitantly, "perhaps my lord allows

this

?"

As it had been noted before, Alpheo appreciated the

gesture,

not the

execution

. The whole pampering affair made his skin itch. Even when he’d taken the crown and carved Yarzat into a power worth naming, he had never warmed to being fanned, fed, and fussed over like a spoilt merchant’s son.

He had built his rule through discipline, not decadence.

A simple life, that was what he liked.

Of course Simple did not intend poor.

Good wine shared with men who’d earned their scars, laughter over the crackle of campfire flames, the smell of horse sweat and steel after victory. That was his luxury.

This, though,this silk-draped nonsense with half-naked servants fluttering about him, made him feel less like a man and more like a

pampered infant

. A big, overgrown child who’d forgotten how to use his own hands.

And he

hated

that feeling.

But above all else, he couldn’t bring himself to indulge. Not tonight. Not when he’d been wrung dry for the sake of another’s throne. Four thousand silverii lighter, and now he was expected to grin, drink, and nod along to the young emperor’s theatrics.

He wasn’t in the mood for it.

Still... the grapes

did

look good.

With a sigh, Alpheo reached out, took the bowl from the startled servant, and tore a cluster straight from the vine with his hands. The woman froze, her delicate fingers still hovering midair as if waiting for some command. Alpheo ignored her entirely, chewing through the grapes one after another, popping them into his mouth like musket shots in a barrel, the sweet juice dribbling slightly down his chin before he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

They were good....

The poor girl was left stranded, holding a single grape like an idiot child clutching a toy she didn’t know what to do with.

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint clink of the fan-bearer’s bracelets and the wet pop of another grape being crushed between Alpheo’s teeth.

Then the heavy doors finally creaked open.

The sound drew both women to attention. Alpheo turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes catching the figure entering the room.

There he was, the

Imperator

.

Mesha didn’t enter with the pomp from the ruler of an empire. Just a hesitant step, a brief pause at the threshold, and a boyish stiffness that betrayed more nerves than authority.

He looked younger than Alpheo remembered from today. His golden sash caught the light, gleaming far too bright for someone who’d had begged for coin.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Mesha’s eyes darted across the room, the bowl of grapes, the servants frozen mid-motion, Alpheo’s lazy sprawl in the chair. There was guilt there, faint but unmistakable. He knew damn well he’d overplayed his hand earlier in the hall, using public pressure to squeeze coin from a man who’d come as his

ally

, not his

banker

.

The young emperor swallowed, his throat bobbing. He seemed unsure whether to smile or bow, torn between imperial dignity and the nagging awareness that he’d just insulted the only man in the room who could save his throne.

"Prince Alpheo," he said finally, his voice softer than in the grand chamber, stripped of its earlier bravado. "I trust you are comfortable?"

Alpheo popped another grape into his mouth, chewed slowly, and gave a half-smirk. "Comfortable enough," he said. "Though I suspect it’s meant to dull the memory of how

uncomfortable

you made me feel this morning. I weep at the thought of the earful I will receive from my wife at the end of this."

He popped another grape into his mouth, chewing lazily as his eyes followed the boy’s expression.

Mesha’s face twitched at the sight, not out of disgust, but confusion. He seemed genuinely unsettled that Alpheo wasn’t being pampered, that the servants were standing idle instead of attending to him like a gilded idol. His gaze flickered to them, a faint crease forming between his brows, as if he was trying to figure out whether he was the one being rude for not insisting on proper decorum.

Alpheo broke the silence first.

"I’m more comfortable like this, your Imperial Majesty. I was the one, after all, who spent half a decade preaching against indulgence to the officers of my army.Their accomodations would make most nobles spit blood in disgust."

He plucked another grape from the bunch, crushed it between his fingers, and let the juice trickle into his mouth before finishing and throwing the pulp back into the bowl ,"I believe that a man who chooses a strict life over a soft one shows the steel of his character. Wouldn’t do well for me to turn around and gorge myself while claiming virtue.A man always has to know of restraint to his own person."

Mesha’s lips parted, but no words came.

He made a show of glancing around the chamber. "But we are alone?"

He nodded faintly. "So we are. No one would witness my escape of duty. Yet it changes nothing"

He saw firsthand as admiration poured inside the boy’s eyes.

"I would ask to skip the formalities," Alpheo begun , setting the bowl of grapes aside. "If your Imperial Majesty permits, I’d be pleased to know exactly what the coin I’ve just loaned will be used for."

The words landed like a hammer on marble.Silence followed.

Alpheo’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t a patient man. "Do I need to carve out my heart to know what my sacrifice will buy?" His tone sharpened, and for a moment, the veneer of courtesy stripped away entirely.

A prince shouldn’t speak like that to an emperor. But the truth was plain to both of them, Alpheo might not win the coming storm without Mesha, but Mesha wouldn’t

live

without Alpheo.

The second prince would hold his head on a platter and give it to the pigs unless he was stopped.

Mesha flinched slightly, his hands tightening in his lap. "Gods, no," he said quickly, his tone faltering. "Forgive me. I was only... trying to find the words. I will tell you everything. In due time."

His eyes darted toward the servants, their half-clothed forms hovering uncertainly by the corner. With a faint gesture of his hand and a tilt of the chin, they understood and slipped out quietly, the scent of oil following them into the hall.

The door shut softly behind them.

For a heartbeat, neither man spoke.

Alpheo leaned back, folding his arms. "Was it your idea, that little stunt back in the hall? Or your uncle’s hand guiding it?"

"It was mine," Mesha admitted after a pause. His voice trembled just enough to betray him.

Alpheo studied him for a moment, then snorted softly. "Got to admit, it was clever. Can’t fault you for that."

Mesha’s cheeks colored faintly, a flicker of boyish pride crossing his face. "It wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t been the first to pledge. I haven’t thanked you enough for that."

Alpheo gave a thin smile and reached for his cup.

Soon enough, I’ll find a way.

He took a sip, his gaze not leaving Mesha’s. "But before I let you butter me further, tell me truly. How will the money be used?"

Mesha froze halfway between a breath and a word. His hand gripped the armrest as he exhaled slowly. The spark of confidence he’d shown in the hall dimmed, replaced by the uneasy restraint of a man afraid to disappoint.

He opened his mouth once, closed it, then tried again. "We... had planned to raise nine thousand men," he began carefully, choosing each word as if it were a step on cracked ice.

Alpheo nodded it was a respectacble number consiering the current state of the nation.

Mesha’s eyes dropped to the floor. "We will not reach it."

Alpheo’s expression didn’t change at first. He merely blinked, set down his cup, and waited for the rest.

Though of course he knew that it would not like it

"By quite a lot."

A long silence followed.

Alpheo stared at him, the faint creases of his face hardening into lines of disbelief.

They were already starting on the back foot.

All that gold, all that pomp, all that

show,

and they were already scraping the barrel for soldiers.

Suddenly, the wave he was looking to ride became a little more than the weak and dying wheeze of the sea.

As he understood that this was to be much harder than he had expected...