Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king
Chapter 592: Foreign presence

Chapter 592: Foreign presence

The heavy rumble of wheels against stone echoed through the avenue of Yarzat, announcing the arrival of the stately carriage long before it could be seen. When it finally rolled into view, the townsfolk lining the road bowed low, placing their right hands solemnly over their hearts in the shape of a star — the sacred symbol of the gods.

Children were shushed by stern mothers, merchants halted their cries, and even beggars paused in their plaintive pleas for homage.

Above the lacquered black roof of the carriage, swaying gently with each turn of the wheels, hung a massive silver emblem: the Great Star of the Gods, glinting coldly in the spring light.

Flanking the carriage on either side rode fifty men on tall, powerful horses, their armor burnished to a mirror shine. Upon the breastplate of each man gleamed the insignia of the Star — the unmistakable mark of the High Ecclesiarchy. Their grim faces betrayed no emotion as they surveyed the crowd, keeping careful watch for any hint of disrespect.

It was clear to all whom the carriange belonged to and who was inside.

As seated within the velvet-lined shadows of the carriage was none other than one of the Twelve Archons — the holiest emissaries of the Pontifex himself, second only to the High Ecclesiast in authority and the ones with the power to vote for the next Pontifex, at the death of the previous one.

He was not there for a pleasure visit, but was instead given an important mission as officially, his arrival was to ensure that the upcoming tribunal against the disgraced priest Elyos would be just and pure — that the hand of judgment would strike with neither favoritism nor fury. The papers said as much, and many would pretend to believe them.

But behind those gilded letters and pious proclamations, all knew the truth:

A priest who dared to raise a sword in rebellion was a scandal too great to be handled by mere local authorities. If Elyos were to be judged solely by his fellow clergy, without the Pontifex’s watchful gaze, the entire Ecclesiarchy’s sanctity would be mocked by every cynical tongue from the south to the north . Thus, an Archon had to be sent — a living seal of divine will, ensuring that whatever happened to Elyos, it would happen with the full weight and approval of the gods’ highest servants.

And so the carriage rolled on, heavy with judgment and expectation, as the people bowed lower, their hands pressed tighter to their hearts, whispering prayers for mercy — or, perhaps, simply praying not to be noticed.

For when the Great Star moved among men, it was seldom a thing of peace.

As for the identity of the man within the carriage, it was His Illustriousness Archon Vesperian of Seramont — one of the Twelve Pillars of the Pontifex’s Council.

His cold, grey eyes lifted in quiet irritation toward the figure across from him: Dorian Astrel, the Imperial Diplomat to the Throne of Romelia.

It was Dorian, after all, who had stitched together the fragile trade agreement between the crumbling Romelian Core that stood inside the Gods’ hand and the rising power of Yarzat — a move many whispered had saved the remnants of Romelia from starvation and collapse.

After all, losing forty percent of their territories during the Brothers’ War had left the heart of the Empire dangerously exposed. Even now, years later, the three sons of the last Emperor still played their petty chess game across the fractured empire, while the corelands clung to life only by the slim veins of commerce Marthio’s son had painstakingly woven.

The Archon would never say it aloud, but he privately considered it a disgrace: for Romelia, once the light of the world, to now depend on trade like a merchant rather than ruling by divine right.

His lips tightened as he noticed Dorian leaning forward, his well-tailored grey cloak falling back from his shoulders, peering curiously out the open window at the bowing crowds. The warm breeze that carried in the scent of the masses only deepened Vesperian’s distaste.

He cleared his throat pointedly.Dorian, ignoring the hint, continued observing the passing scene with mild amusement, as though he were a tourist visiting some quaint but ultimately forgettable village.

Vesperian’s fingers drummed lightly against the polished wood armrest. He detested this “shit-hole province,” as he thought of it — this Yarzat, this muddy outpost at the edge of the world — where he had been ordered, against his many protests, to personally oversee the proceedings against the heretic priest Elyos. To leave his quarters of polished marble and incense-scented halls for this? To sit in judgment over a provincial scandal?

With a scowl, he shifted his gaze back toward Dorian and spoke, his voice like the slow grind of stone:”Would you be so kind, Sir Dorian, to draw the curtain? I find the scent of the rabble… oppressive.”

He turned his cold gaze once again toward Dorian seein him not move .

“Tell me, Sir” Vesperian said, voice thick with disdain, “how can you bear with the stench of this… this dungheap masquerading as a city?”

Dorian did not immediately answer. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening to the distant hum of the city outside .

Finally, he spoke, his tone conversational, almost fond.”Three years ago, Your Grace, when I first came to these lands… I shared your exact sentiment.”He gave a small chuckle, tapping one finger lightly on the window frame.

“But things change, even here. When I first rode south, Yarzat did not have its aqueduct. The public fountains, now so proudly displayed in every square? Absent. The roads were worn . No paved market. No organized watchmen.”

He paused, smiling slightly to himself, as though remembering the thick mud streets and the stink of unwashed humanity that had once choked the air worse than now.

“It was worse, believe it or not,” Dorian said, glancing slyly at the Archon. “Far worse than today. And I have it on good authority that Her Grace is deeply invested in the next great project: the construction of a full sewer system. If it succeeds, the rotting smell will vanish altogether, and perhaps even your esteemed nose might find it tolerable.”

Archon Vesperian snorted, a sound halfway between derision and grudging amusement. He shifted in his seat, brushing a speck of imaginary dust from his robe.

“Hmph,” he muttered. “It would certainly be desirable. No sin, after all, in lifting a place a little closer to civilization. ”

He crossed his arms, closing his eyes for a moment as though warding off the very memory of what the city must have been like before its modest improvements

Dorian turned his gaze from the window back to the Archon, his expression smoothing into something careful.

“If I may, Your Illustriousness,” Dorian said, his tone polite yet firm, “I would advise that you be mindful not to entertain such… expressions ahead of His Grace or Her Grace. It would serve no one — least of all His Majesty the Emperor — to have precious allies bear any resentment toward the Pontifex and his protector.”

The carriage creaked softly as it rolled over a rough patch in the road, the banners above snapping sharply in the wind.Archon Vesperian opened one eye, his cold stare fixing on Dorian like a blade unsheathed in silence. He was no fool; he caught the veiled warning easily.

Dorian had spoken the truth — though draped in civility. The Pontifex, once the thunderous voice of the gods across the world, was now little more than a careful puppet, strings tangled firmly around imperial fingers.

The thought soured Vesperian’s mood even further. His lips thinned into a hard line as he fought the surge of irritation.

“I am not so stupid as to mistake tact for piety,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “Nor am I so careless as to invite offense when none need be given. You may cease your worrying,sir. I know well enough the game we are playing.”

Dorian, for his part, only offered a small, measured smile and bowed his head slightly, the gesture just deep enough to acknowledge the rebuke without challenging it.

“I am pleased to hear that,” Dorian said smoothly. “After all, it would be most unfortunate for misunderstandings to mar the fruitful future we are tasked to build.”

The air between them settled into a chilly, professional silence for a few seconds , until the Archon folded his hands over his lap, his fingers tapping thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again.”I hope, Sir Dorian, that you will not mind if I pose to you another question,” he said, his voice silkier this time, wearing a thin veneer of politeness.

Sir Dorian, who had not moved his gaze far from the passing cityscape, turned his head slightly and offered a short, courteous nod.”Not at all,” he replied smoothly. “If it is within my power to sate any curiosity or doubt, I shall be more than willing to oblige.”

The Archon gave a faint smile at that, a small tilt of the lips that did little to soften the calculating gleam in his eyes.”I appreciate that,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Yet I hope you shall not take it badly if I ask the reason for your presence here.”

Sir Dorian said nothing, only inclining his head slightly as an invitation to continue.

“I understand well enough the importance this principality now poses for His Majesty the Emperor,” the Archon went on, his fingers resuming their soft tapping against the carved wood of the carriage arm. “And I know the bonds of necessity that tie the Imperial Throne to these southern lands. But still…”

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so that it was little more than a conspiratorial murmur, “I cannot see why someone such as yourself would be dispatched merely to congratulate Her Grace on her victories, glorious though they may be. No, no… there must be something more at work here.”

Sir Dorian said nothing at first. He merely smiled — a mild, mysterious thing that was neither a confirmation nor a denial, a smile that made the Archon’s suspicions settle like a stone in his gut.

“If you must know, Your Illustriousness” he said, his voice carrying the soothing cadence of a well-rehearsed speech, “I am here to truly extend His Majesty’s congratulations for Her Grace’s splendid victories .”

He paused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with the absent grace of a man used to carrying heavy meanings in simple gestures.

“And,” Dorian continued smoothly, “to offer — in the spirit of mutual respect and opportunity — a proposal to deepen the bonds of cooperation between our realms. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.Of course nothing is set in stone as they are still talks ”

The Archon, recognizing the finality in those words, narrowed his eyes slightly. But he said nothing.There would be no more digging today; Dorian had drawn the line in the sand with all the softness of falling snow — and with the same inevitable weight.

He gave a slight incline of his head, respectful but firm.”I suggest, Your Illustriosness, that we leave it at that.”

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