The Great Hall of Yarzat was rich with the haze of smoke and the fatty, greasy scent of roasted meat mingling with the warm aroma of fresh-baked bread.
A lone singer plucked at the high harp, his ballad lost beneath the cacophony—the roar of the hearth-fire, the clatter of pewter plates, the raucous laughter of men deep in their cups.
Jarza leaned back in his seat, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips. He was content with his place—not so high that the weight of command crushed his shoulders, yet not so low that his voice went unheard. It had been years since he'd tasted a proper meal, and the meager suppers after long marches hardly counted. But tonight? Tonight, the feast was worthy of kings.
His gaze drifted to Alpheo, standing apart from the others, staring at the spread of food as if it were a puzzle he couldn't solve. The man hadn't touched a single bite. Instead, he nursed his third cup of wine, the deep red liquid swirling as he lifted it to his lips. Jarza had been counting.
Strange man.
Alpheo was their leader—cold, calculating, the kind of man who decided fates with a flick of his wrist. Yet Jarza had never seen him indulge.
No whores, no gluttony, no drunken stupors.
Not even a proper wash, if the rumors were true. Some men whispered that he swung the other way, but Jarza doubted it. Alpheo didn't swing at all. He was like a blade—sharp, unyielding, and utterly without appetite.
Gods put me in his path for a reason, Jarza mused, raising his own cup to his lips. The wine was rich and dark, the kind that warmed the belly and loosened the tongue. Around him, the men roared with laughter, slapping the table as he drained another goblet. They were good company—rough, loud, and eager for tales of battle, bedding, and the hunt.
Alpheo had forbidden them from drinking tonight.
Ah well. The wine was right there. Was it really his fault if his hand moved on its own?
After the fourth cup, he risked another glance at Alpheo. The man was deep in conversation with another figure. Jarza squinted, trying to make out who held their leader's attention so raptly.
Then he saw it.
A delicate hand, pale as moonlight, resting on Alpheo's arm. A flash of silver embroidery on a sleeve too fine for this hall.
Royal blood.
"Lucky bastard," Jarza muttered, nudging Laedio, who sat beside him, cheeks stuffed like a squirrel hoarding nuts. The man turned, eyes widening as he followed Jarza's gaze. With a muffled chuckle, he grinned, bits of meat tumbling from his mouth.
Egil, ever the troublemaker, leaned in, his brow furrowed. "For him, it's acceptable to seek out a bedmate—and one of royal blood, no less—yet for me, it's forbidden?"
Jarza's patience thinned, but he kept his fists clenched at his sides. "Alpheo is no fool," he snapped realising that whatever he was doing it was for their well-being. "He knows the lines he can't cross. He won't throw away his future for a night's pleasure. That's the difference between him and the likes of you."
Egil barked a laugh, loud enough to draw glances. "I'd do it," he declared, smirking. "A final night of glory before death—empty balls, full pride."
"That's why he leads, and you follow," Jarza shot back.
Egil shrugged, tearing into a loaf of bread. "Never wanted to lead. Give me a horse, and I'm happy for half my life. Give me a village to raid, burn, and rape, and I'll die fulfilled."
Jarza snorted. "A young death is a curse, not a blessing."
"Half the men who take the steel then are cursed—maybe it's true for you land-hoarders," Egil declared, thumping his chest with a greasy fist. "But not in my tribe. For us, it's an honor. My father always said any man who lived to see his forties was good for nothing."
Jarza arched a brow, swirling his wine. "And what was he when he died?"
"Thirty-seven," Egil said without missing a beat, tearing into a hunk of bread. "Stayed true to his words." He chewed thoughtfully, then added, "At least in that."
Jarza smirked but said nothing. His attention flickered back to where he'd last seen Alpheo—only to find the man striding toward them, his expression unreadable.
Clio, ever the observer, leaned in with a grin. "Seems like you're enjoying yourself."
"Not as much as you,"he muttered, eyeing the lavish platters of roasted meats and sugared fruits reserved for the highborn. He snatched a piece of oiled bread, wrinkling his nose. "Can't stomach the slop they're devouring.Too much pepper...always hated spicy foods"
"It's not all bad," Clio countered, popping a grape into his mouth. "You just have to find the right dish."
Alpheo stopped before them, his gaze sharp as flint. "Maybe you can," he said, voice low. Then, to Jarza: "Listen up. I'm stepping away. You're in charge until I return. Keep an eye on Laedio and Egil—especially the latter."
Egil scoffed, slamming his cup down. "What am I, a child?"
"Worse," Alpheo said without hesitation. "You're a liability. Left alone, you'd get us all killed before dawn."
Egil's face darkened, but Jarza cut in with a lazy wave. "Relax, I'll keep him on a short leash," he assured, then smirked. "Just make sure you keep your pants up. Same talk you gave Egil applies to you."
A flicker of amusement crossed Alpheo's face. "I know my standing."
"Good man," Jarza said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now go. Don't keep your royal shadow waiting."
With a final nod, Alpheo melted into the crowd, his dark cloak blending with the shadows near the hall's arched exit.
As by now he had to accompany a princess on a walk.