Chapter 779: Flower of peace(3)
Alpheo’s fingers brushed along the edge of the parchment again. He turned the petition over once more, letting it pass between his fingers as though handling it differently might rearrange the words inside.
But no amount of turning would change the six wax seals still burned into its surface.
It had been hours since the letter was delivered. The Habadian envoy had long since been shown to his lodgings, forced, grudgingly, to accept Alpheo’s offer of temporary hospitality while waiting for an answer.
Not that there was one to give. Not yet.
The news hadn’t spread beyond the tent. Alpheo had been swift in silencing tongues, confining the knowledge of the petition to only his inner circle.
He still had to decide on what to do about it.
A month-long truce. That was the request. A clean halt to all operations against Turogontoli while the six princes prepared a peace conference. On paper, it sounded reasonable.
But to halt now, when the siege was tightening and momentum leaned in his favor? That was to give Turogontoli time to rebuild,while knowing that he would be forced into signing a peace after the conference, it didn’t take a genius to know what would happen if peace was not signed
And that was the core of it. The war that had been his to win or lose was being taken from him.
"That’s all we bloody needed," Egil muttered from across the tent, pacing like a restless hound, his irritation grinding into every syllable. "Foreign bastards with no stake in this mess, suddenly deciding it’s theirs to meddle in. Who the hell do they think they are? I say we ignore the damn parchment, press on, and take the city by the week’s end. Let ’em scream about peace from the comfort of their palaces. To the conqueror goes the spoil"
He punctuated his rant by slamming his calloused hand down on the table hard enough to rattle the cups, while watching Alpheo to see if he agreed.
Alpheo’s eyes however didn’t leave the letter.
"You imbecile," Shahab snapped from beside the hearth, his voice sharp and dry like old bark. "You’d doom us all with that reckless pride of yours. Had you been prince, we’d be licking our wounds beneath another man’s flag by now."
Egil turned with a scowl and a snort. "Had you
been prince, at least we’d be rid of your ancient corpse by now. I say leave war to those whose bones don’t creak with every step. Maybe peace sings to your brittle ears."Shahab rose in anger "I’ve been fighting wars since you were still fumbling with a wooden sword in your father’s hut. Mind your tongue, boy."
"I have seen the wars you’ve led," Egil shot back, gesturing wildly. "Don’t fool yourself, they were no wars. Just noblemen’s games, with banners and horns and pomp. You call those battles? In my tribe, warriors truly knew what war meant, and we didn’t stop to beg for approval from cowards hiding behind pens and scrolls."
Shahab’s scowl only deepened ’’Then perhaps you should return to the plains and chase deer with spears, if that’s the only measure of valor you understand."
"What’s wrong, old one?" Egil sneered. "Afraid we’ll make the rest of the continent weep if we keep shedding blood? Fuck their plea for peace!"
"I fear only the stupidity that sits between your ears," Shahab growled. "That letter is no plea—it’s a warning. Bare and unadorned for anyone with the sense to read it. The moment we ignore it, we declare ourselves enemies to all six of those princes.’’
Alpheo let out a long, weary sigh.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers before finally speaking, not loudly, but with just enough in his tone to bring the rising storm to a halt.
"Enough," he said. "Your bickering is not helping me think."
Egil scowled and turned his face away, while Shahab eased back onto his seat, arms crossed but visibly satisfied with the reprimand. Alpheo, for his part, didn’t have the time or patience to play referee between old pride and young fire, not tonight, he didn’t have enough head for it.
He turned his gaze back toward the cursed piece of parchment resting on the war table like a coiled serpent.
"I had thought our greatest challenge would be the breaking of Turogontoli’s walls," he muttered, half to himself. "But now I see the real siege is in this choice."
Then, more clearly if Egil had not get it "What Shahab said is true."
He caught the old veteran’s smirk out of the corner of his eye as Shahab shot a smug glance toward Egil,who grumbled something under his breath but stayed silent.
"This is not a request for peace," Alpheo continued. "It’s a veiled threat, dressed in velvet and stamped in wax. Look at it,six signatures. Six seals. Do you think that bastard Nibadur spent weeks gathering endorsements just to pass on a harmless plea for diplomacy? Saying, "Look at this, all of them want peace", you truly think that was his intention?’’
He held up the letter, shaking it slightly in the air for emphasis.
"No. He wants something. And if it were merely peace, he wouldn’t have needed six voices to echo his."
That quieted even Egil, whose jaw worked slightly, but whose tongue stayed behind his teeth.
Across the table, Jarza leaned forward, finally breaking his own long silence. His fingers toyed absently with the silver clasp on his belt, brow furrowed.
"But how did he manage it?" he asked, voice tinged with disbelief. "How did he fish so many of them against us? Do they really see us as that much of a threat?"
Alpheo tilted his head. "That’s the wrong question."
He tapped a finger against the letter lying open before him.
"The question is: how far are they willing to go?"
Shahab’s gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we don’t know what happens if we refuse. We don’t know if they’re all truly ready to commit troops, to throw men and gold into the fire just to stop us. Or..." he paused, letting the silence stretch before continuing, "...or if Nibadur simply waved coin under their noses and asked for a signature in return. A symbolic gesture to mimick something that is not."
Egil frowned, arms crossed. "So we’re not in danger, then?"
"That’s what we’re trying to figure out," Asag answered from his corner, his dark eyes fixed on Egil.
He shifted his posture, boots scraping the grass below, his foot tapping in a slow, restless rhythm.
"But there’s something else," he said, glancing toward Alpheo. "Something that bothers me."
Alpheo looked up. "Go on."
"It wasn’t an Oizenian who delivered the letter."
That made the room pause, some in thought, others in confusion at what it meant.
Asag continued, his tone slower now, more thoughtful. "If Oizen was the main beneficiary of this truce, if they’re the ones we’re being asked to halt our advance against... then by all rights, they should’ve sent the envoy.Hell they should have been the one holding that paper and the one to organise such a thing.
But they didn’t. Habadia did."
Alpheo sat up straighter, brow furrowing.
He hadn’t thought of that
"I don’t understand why any of that should matter one damn bit," Egil snapped, his voice sharper than before, though his confidence had clearly faltered. "Who gives a shit who brought the letter? Isn’t it the message that counts? What’s written inside, not who carried the damned parchment?"
He sounded genuinely frustrated now, less like a man being challenged and more like one being left behind in a conversation he could no longer follow.
It wasn’t his fault, not really. He was a man of the plains, raised from people where diplomacy was drawn in blood and borders were lines traced by hoofprints. His world had little room for veils and theater.
"The two are not separate," Jarza answered, his tone calm but firm, like a patient teacher correcting a student. "When someone brings a dagger to a feast, does it matter only that there’s a weapon, or do you take note of who was bold enough to carry it?"
Egil stared at him, unmoved. The circumstances of that were different, weren’t they?
Jarza leaned forward. "It’s not just a letter. It’s how it came, and who came with it. Every gesture speaks."
Egil folded his arms again. "So what the hell does it speak, then?"
It was Asag who answered this time, his voice low and even, as if laying out the final piece of a puzzle that had been staring them all in the face.
"It means they’re playing us for fools," he said. "Showing us the shadow of a lion when it might only be a housecat. That envoy wasn’t just a messenger, he was a tool to illude us. A performance. Nibadur wants us to stare at him, to see his hand behind all this, and focus on his presence rather than the words on the page.
Perhaps he wants us to overthink about the meaning behind it, mimicking a great fire from a lousy candle....’’