Chapter 744: Asking for a favor(2)
It didn’t take a sharp mind to read the truth in the prince’s face.
Plus, the open map spread across the table in front of him told the rest of the story. So did the half-ring of men around him.
They had walked straight into a war council.
“Who,” the prince said at last, his gaze lifting from the table to spear both Thalien and Arnold, “let you inside… my lords?”
The weight in those last two words made Arnold’s stomach tighten. For a heartbeat he wrestled with how to answer without drawing the man’s ire. But Thalien, ever quicker to fill a silence, spoke first.
“Our apologies,” he said, dipping his head slightly. “It seems Lord Jarza decided to jest with us today. He assured us you were free.”
“As you can see,” Alpheo replied, his voice flat, “I am not.”
Thalien inclined his head again, this time more carefully. “Then we will wait outside, if that pleases you.”
“It does. Please do.”
The prince’s eyes dropped back to the map as though they had never been there at all.
Arnold followed his brother out,without having said a single words since he had entered, the heavy tent flap falling shut behind them, muting the low thrum of voices within. The sun had shifted a finger’s breadth by the time either of them spoke again.
They stood in the shadow of the prince’s pavilion, soldiers in black-and-white livery passing by with hardly a glance at the two lords made to wait like errand boys.
Half an hour passed. The heat pressed down. A faint breeze tugged at the edges of the great pavilion’s banners.
Then the prince’s voice cut echoed from inside.
“You can enter.”
They obeyed without a word, stepping back into the prince’s tent.
The atmosphere inside had shifted. The table that earlier had been covered in a map and war markers was now bare, save for a silver carafe, a few cups, and a bowl of figs pushed to the side. Whatever business had occupied the prince before had been neatly swept away
“That,” Alpheo began without looking at them directly, his tone carrying a dry amusement, “is the first time I have ever seen him make a joke.” His gaze flicked toward them briefly, before returning to the carafe
“Normally, I would take it as a sign he holds you in high enough regard to be on jesting terms… though,” he added, turning fully toward Thalien, “considering the subject, I can say with confidence that is not the case.” His lips curled into a faint smile, almost as if at some private thought. “I apologise for keeping you waiting outside. Unfortunately, you arrived in the middle of… delicate matters.”
“You have no need to apologise, Your Grace,” Arnold replied quickly, bowing his head. “We were the ones in the wrong.” He stiffened slightly when Alpheo extended a cup toward him, surprised that the prince poured the wine himself rather than having a servant do it. He accepted the drink with both hands and sipped from it
From the corner of his eye, Arnold caught Thalien’s faint smirk—a silent you’ll get used to it. His brother took his own cup and tossed it back in a single gulp, only to halt midway, his brows shooting up when he realized it was water.
The prince chuckled softly at the reaction before lowering himself into his chair. “Now then,” he said, resting an elbow on the armrest, “what brings you to my tent?”
Thalien leaned forward slightly, the faintest of mischievous grins tugging at his mouth. “Well, Your Grace… there’s only one reason a lord seeks out his liege when it’s not to pay taxes or ride to war, he comes to ask for a favour.”
Arnold’s jaw clenched at the way his brother had laid it bare so bluntly. Still, the dice was thrown now, there was no walking it back.
He took a slow breath, recalling the exact words he had rehearsed over the past days. “Your Grace, during the last months my father ruled the princedom, he was… consumed by fear at the thought of facing you. In his desperation, he tried anything to gain the slightest leverage before the final battle.”
Alpheo said nothing, his eyes resting on Arnold with calm, steady attention.
“One of the sacrifices he made was Lord Cretio, may the gods keep his soul well,” Arnold mutter, the sting surging back from his depth.
“I knew of him,” the prince interjected, his tone briefly softer. “A brave man.”
“He was, Your Grace. He gave to the throne nothing but honesty and valor… and we repaid him by spitting on his memory. My father betrayed him, cast him aside to buy time for himself. And once Cretio was dead, he forced me to divorce my wife to take another.”
Arnold’s throat felt tight as he went on. “The city fell before he could see the plan through. You crushed his army with ease. But…” His voice faltered before he forced it out. “She was with child, Your Grace. And because we were divorced when our daughter was born, she is branded illegitimate. Lord Malis, brother to Lady Eloir and Cretio’s son, has suffered shame because of it, and so has the child and mother.”
For the first time, Arnold met Alpheo’s eyes squarely. “I want to set it right, Your Grace. She is my daughter, my blood conceived during marriage, though born outside of it. I want for she to be made legitimate.”
The prince was silent for a heartbeat, his gaze weighing the words, before he exhaled through his nose. “I see,” he said finally, his voice measured. “A sad tale, and one of the many burdens your father has left you with.” He leaned back slightly, fingers drumming on the armrest. “But I believe you are asking the wrong man. This matter lies in the hands of the High Priest, not mine. He alone holds the power to alter your daughter’s standing.”
“Well, there’s the problem, Your Grace,” Thalien said with a lopsided smile that could have been mistaken for charm, if not for the glint of mischief in his eyes. He tipped back his cup and drained the last of the water in a single swallow, grimacing as if he had expected wine. “We’re dirt poor. And we all know the High Priest’s love for all that glitters. Unfortunately,” he set the cup down with a dull thunk, “we have precious little that shines.”
Arnold’s stomach knotted. He could almost feel the impropriety of his brother’s words hang in the air like the moment before a storm. He stepped forward slightly, bowing his head toward the prince. “I apologise for my brother’s… manner of speaking,” he said quickly, his voice clipped with nervous respect.
Alpheo did not bristle, nor did he reach for anger. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, cup in hand, his gaze fixed on the two brothers as though weighing them. “Still, bare and uncouth as his words may be, are they not the truth?” He took a slow sip from his drink, then reached for a fig from the small wooden bowl on the table, biting into it with unhurried ease.
The casualness of the gesture did nothing to ease Arnold’s tension. His shoulders sagged slightly as he admitted, “They are, Your Grace.” He lowered his head, the weight of his predicament pressing heavier than before. Perhaps, he thought grimly, inviting Thalien to stand at his side during this request had not been the wisest choice.
The silence that followed was not an empty one. It was the kind of pause in which the prince could be thinking of a dozen possibilities at once, deciding whether to close the door entirely, or open it just enough for them to squeeze through.
Arnold felt the moment slipping away, the prince’s calm gaze was steady, unreadable, and in that stillness he knew that if he did not act now, his plea would die here in this tent.
He drew in a slow, unsteady breath. His pride screamed for him to remain standing, to keep at least the thin veil of dignity that befitted a lord. But this was no matter of pride, this was his daughter, his blood, the one innocent thing left untainted by the filth his father had wrought.
This was for Cretio’s memory.
Without another word, he lowered himself , no he threw himself on his knees. The leather of his boots creaked, and the chain of his armor gave a faint jingle.
“Your Grace…” His words came low, but firm. “I stand before you not as a proud lord, but as a father, a man seeking only to mend a family that a tyrant’s hand has torn apart.”
His fingers curled against his knee, knuckles pale. “My father,” he spat the word as though it tasted foul, “was a man of cruelty and self-preservation. He bartered with the lives and honor of others to buy himself time… and in doing so, he shattered what little good there was left in our house. The shame he has brought us, I would scrub from memory if I could. But the girl, my daughter, she carries none of his stain. She was born in the shadow of his sins, and yet she is blameless.”
Arnold finally lifted his gaze, his voice tightening with desperation. “Your Grace, I have no wealth to sway the High Priest. I have no silvered tongue to charm him, no treasures to offer in exchange for my child’s rightful name. But you—” his voice cracked slightly, “you hold the power to open doors that I cannot. I beg you, extend to me your generosity. Help me make her whole in the eyes of the realm. Do not let the cruelty of one man dictate the fate of an innocent child.
Of that I beg you, as a beggar asks for coin, as a father seeks to do his best, as a man that seeks the right, I now implore you for help.”