Chapter 886: Final step(1)

’’Have my things been sorted out?"

"Yes, Your Grace .They’re already loaded in the carriage.The army is just waiting the order to advance"

Alpheo gave no further reply, only shifted his stance, widening the gap between his legs so that his squire could more easily fasten the greaves around his calves. The sound of buckles clinking filled the tent mimicking the sound of preparation coming from outside.

The boy working on him was Doran, nephew to Lord Xanthios ,foisted onto him after the old vulture had begged a favor to have the lad serve under the Prince of Yarzat. Not that the boy was bad; far from it. Doran was competent, obedient, quiet.

Still, Alpheo missed when it was Ratto that fastened his armor.

That damned boy had been loud, messy, but he had been a wind of life in camp. The men loved him. Even Alpheo had found his insolence refreshing. Ratto was now with Egil, and from what Alpheo had heard, doing well. The boy had learned to fight and was making proof of it on each battle.

Egil had said as much, and he did not hand out praise lightly. That was enough proof for him.

A kind smile tugged at Alpheo’s lips as he thought of the lad. The Golden Steeds would soon need fresh blood , a proper cavalry arm, armored and drilled to strike like thunder. Ratto would fit right in. It was high time, too, that old Sir Mereth be given his peace , a small castle by the sea perhaps. Changes were to be made to the cavalry unit, and as history teached old people were always the least fond of changes.

When Doran finally set the purple cloak on his shoulders and pinned it with the silver brooch, Alpheo gave a short nod.

He looked, as he always did before battle,

fabulous.

"Have the servants prepare the tents for travel," he said. "We won’t stay long."

He didn’t need to look at Doran to know the question in his eyes.

"You’ll see your time, lad," Alpheo said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Don’t hang your head so low , it’ll fall off before you ever wear a helm."

"But, Your Grace," Doran ventured, voice low but hopeful, "weren’t you barely older than me when you took command of your company?"

"I was," Alpheo admitted, with a half-smile. "But I commanded from horseback not in the mud. If I’d gone down there with them, I’d have been trampled into soup long before we ever made Yarzat what it is."

"Thanks to the Divines that you didn’t, Your Grace."

That earned the boy a flick on the forehead. "I don’t like ass-lickers," Alpheo said with mock severity. "Next battle, perhaps, will be your moment."

Doran laughed despite himself, rubbing his brow while Alpheo left the tent without turning back, though he could imagine the grin splitting the boy’s face behind him: that bright, foolish joy that came from being noticed by someone you’d die to impress.

There wasn’t much left to be said when Alpheo stepped outside his tent. He’d seen this sight half a dozen times before , the slow making of his army preparing to march. And yet, no matter how familiar it was, it still pulled something deep in his chest, pride.

Each carried near thirty kilograms of steel between armor and shield, and another fifteen strapped to their packs. Inside those packs lay everything a man wearing those colours could call his own: a shovel for the trenches, a tent barely larger than a coffin, a kit of oil and limestone to keep his armor from rusting, a spoon, a knife narrow as a whisper to eat, a waterskin , and for some touch of humanity dice, trinkets, and small talismans of home.

They could march twenty kilometers a day without breaking sweat, and still make camp by sundown. Double that in safe territory, where the only thing that could stop them was the sun itself.

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the man creeping up behind him until a weight landed hard on his shoulder.

"About time you crawled out," said a familiar voice. "We were growing mold waiting for you."

Alpheo turned his head and met Egil’s grinning face, which normally made enemies furious and friends tired. He brushed the man’s elbow off his shoulder with a grunt.

"The lords’ retinues are still not ready," Alpheo replied flatly. "You’ll have time to grow moss yet." He gave Egil a long, assessing look. "Though from what I hear, you’ve already grown roots in your room this past month."

Egil’s grin sharpened. "More like seeds."

Alpheo’s expression didn’t change.

Gods

, he thought,

he’s probably right.

Some years and an entire brood of bastards bound to his name by gossip if not by blood. Egil might’ve lost his tribe years ago, but the man was hell-bent on repopulating it single-handedly.

Alpheo exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if that might stop the headache before it came.

"Seeds," he repeated, voice dry as sand. "Let’s hope none of them bloom before we’re gone."

Egil merrily laughed at that.

Still, the man was a storm given legs and a sword. He was eccentric as the sun, but by the divines if he were not a fantastic commander to have under the belt.

Nonetheless Alpheo couldn’t help but think badly of that quirk of his.

If he ever learned to care for his bastards as much as he cared for making them, I’d have one less trouble in this world.

He felt a hand clasping his shoulder lightly. "Better this way than the other. One month as a guest, I had thought trouble would come knocking.’’ Alpheo turned around to see Asag comforting him

"I suppose shedding some blood will help with that," Egil said, cracking his knuckles as he turned to the newcomer. His grin was sharp and feral, the kind that came before storms. "In a certain sense, I’ll be fighting against one of the demon’s spawn. It’s about damn time. I’m getting rusty, it feels like years since I last broke a lance on a man’s chest." He glanced toward Alpheo, a glint of curiosity beneath the swagger. "Speaking of which... didn’t think your proposal would actually pass.

"The Imperator agreed with me," Alpheo said evenly, fastening the clasp of his cloak.

Egil snorted. "Aye, but I recall a good many trying to change his mind. From what I hear, they’d have sooner flayed you than let you lead them east.And between me, you, and the Romelian spy hearing our words" he gave a small smile ’’I do not believe the Imperator’s words worth that much anymore. You have all seen just how many lords answered his call.

His position is as solid as a sand castle and we are the sticks holding that shit up"’’

"From a strategist’s point of view, your plan had merit," Asag chirped in. "But in practice? You did just convince half the empire to abandon an entire province. That tends to make enemies."

"They clamored plenty," Jarza added as he came close when he noticed the group, voice low and hoarse. "But I suppose the gesture of you and the Emperor giving up your share of the spoils was enough to shame most of those pampered bastards into silence. Still, it burns me. We bleed and spend more for this empire than anyone in that hall,and yet we’ve got to fight tooth and nail just to be heard."

Alpheo’s gaze drifted toward the camp, where men hauled backpacks and banners into line. The smell of oiled metal and horses thickened the air. "We play with the cards we’re dealt," he said finally.

Especially when we can’t leave the table.

He didn’t say that part, though judging by the faces of his comrades, they knew it well enough.

Silence lingered for a breath too long. Doubt had settled on them like dust after a march. So Alpheo did what he always did when facing the void, he filled it with fire.

"Come now," he said, voice rising just enough to pull their eyes back to him. "Not all is black. We’ve the best ground we could ask for. One flank shielded by the river, the other by our steel. We’ll be the hinge that decides the battle and when victory comes, it will be

our

banners the wind carries first.We should take honor in that"

Egil smirked faintly; Asag’s brow eased. Even Jarza, dour as stone, raised his chin a little.

Alpheo pressed on. "Think of it, ’the saviors of Romelia.’ That’s what they’ll call us. Imagine the songs, the chronicles. Our names will be written in history books instead of rotting on forgotten graves. Do you remember where we began? We were nobodies, condemned to die in the mud, no tomb, no tale, no mark upon the world." He paused, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Now look where we stand. On the verge of something greater than our own lives. Too far gone to look back. The only road left is forward."

A wind swept across the camp, tugging at the banners In that moment, even the doubts seemed to bow to it.

Alpheo turned toward the horizon, where he imagined the enemy waiting "And if our path runs through Romelia," he said quietly, almost to himself, "then we’ll fight as though it were our own land we’re defending."

No one spoke after that. There was no need to. The silence that followed was not the hush of fear but the calm before the storm, of men who yet did not know how strong was the current that waited on the river.

And who of them it would bring along.

The drums began to beat soon after.

And with them, the march to war began, one that whichever way it went would change the table it was played on.