Looking for employment(3)

He speaks and acts like a nobleman, Asag thought as he studied Alpheo, the only person who had ever called him brother.

Most people ignored Asag. They mistook his silence for simple-mindedness, dismissing him with quick glances or polite disinterest. He had long learned that people spoke more freely when they thought you weren't worth speaking to. So, he observed. He listened. He read people like a book, turning their words over in his mind and piecing together the things they didn't say.

Alpheo, however, was an enigma. He carried himself with the ease of a man born to command, yet no lord would claim him as kin. Asag had saved his life once, and in return, Alpheo had introduced him to his small circle of friends—Jarza, Egil, and Clio. They had treated him kindly, yet even among them, Asag felt like a rat scurrying along the edges of a great hall, watching from the shadows.

He studied them carefully.

Jarza was a man of few words, his emotions hidden beneath a mask of stoicism. Yet in his eyes, Asag saw something unshakable—fierce loyalty. He followed Alpheo without hesitation, not out of blind obedience, but because he believed in him. Perhaps that was Alpheo's greatest talent: inspiring loyalty where none should exist. The gods were said to bestow such gifts upon men along with curses. Asag, however, had only ever felt cursed.

A sharp gust of wind whipped against his face, stinging his burn scar like a cat's claw. He flinched, gritting his teeth against the familiar pain.

Then there was Egil—an unpredictable creature. Outwardly, he was jovial, lighthearted, always quick with a jest. But beneath that laughter lurked something darker, a coiled beast waiting to strike. Unlike the rest of them, Egil seemed truly at home in this life of blood and coin. A man born to be a mercenary.

It was strange to say, but perhaps someone as unhinged as Alpheo was probably the only thing stopping him, from acting as the savage hound that his people were known for.

Clio was the last of their group, though he was absent now. Asag had never understood what use Alpheo saw in him. Unlike Jarza, he had no great strength. Unlike Egil, he had no particular skill. He couldn't read, couldn't count, and was hardly a remarkable fighter. 

And then there was Alpheo himself.

A contradiction in human form. At times, he was kind, offering words of comfort and brotherhood. But there was cruelty in him too, a quiet pleasure in the suffering of others. He never raised a blade himself, never dirtied his hands with the executions, yet he always watched. When the cooks were strung up for stealing, when the soldiers were put to the sword for desertion—Alpheo stood among the crowd, his eyes alight with something that sent a shiver down Asag's spine.

Weaving strings. Watching the results unfold.

If Asag had to choose one word for him, it would be charismatic. He had a way with words, a silver tongue that bent men to his will. When they had fled the camp, five hundred and thirty had followed him. By the time they reached imperial land, only twenty left, each taking their share of the loot before vanishing into the night.

Asag tightened his cloak around him, watching his so-called "brother" in silence.

Even now, as Asag watched Alpheo negotiate with Robert, he couldn't help but feel a quiet awe.

There was something unsettling—almost unnatural—about the way Alpheo spoke and moved, as if the world itself was merely a dice waiting to be thrown by his hand. 

And so, once again, Asag listened as Alpheo worked his latest trick.

"Two months."

Alpheo raised two fingers, his expression as calm as ever. "We want two months' pay in advance."

Robert stiffened, his forehead creasing with frustration. His composure, already strained, teetered on the edge of breaking. "What are you talking about?" he snapped.

"As I said," Alpheo continued smoothly, lazily inspecting his nails as though the matter was beneath his concern. "We want to be paid partially in advance." He paused, then tilted his head slightly. "I have a hunch that your liege's treasury is running thin after two years of war. Prolonged conflict tends to bleed coffers dry."

Robert's mind reeled. How does he know that?

Unbeknownst to him, Alpheo had no secret source, no hidden informant whispering the state of their finances. He had simply taken a shot in the dark—reading the ragged state of the prince's army, the drawn-out nature of the war, and making an educated guess. A gamble. And by the look on Robert's face, he had hit the mark.

"This is unheard of!" Robert barked, his fist slamming onto the table. Around him, his guards stirred, shifting forward, hands brushing against their hilts in a silent warning.

Alpheo didn't so much as blink. His dark eyes met Robert's, calm yet unreadable, before flicking to the guards.

"Sir Robert," he said, his voice even, yet laced with a quiet threat, "I suggest you tell your men to stand down. I do take arguments rather amiably, if I may say so." He leaned back slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "As you can see, I have far more men than you, though I fear they may not be as... understanding as I am."

Silence.

The tension hung thick in the air, heavy as the weight of a blade pressed against one's throat.

Robert hesitated.

And in that moment, Asag saw it.

Alpheo had won.

He took a heavy breath before reluctantly gesturing for his guards to step back. Though they obeyed, their hands remained close to their weapons, their eyes locked onto Alpheo like hounds awaiting a command.

"I suppose you're worried we'll take the payment and vanish," Robert said at last, his voice tight.

Alpheo offered a slow, knowing nod. "Indeed. Just as you fear us fleeing with the coin, I fear that your prince may prove... unable to fulfill his end of the bargain." He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes never leaving Robert's. "Consider the situation from our perspective, Sir Robert. We are newcomers to these lands, entering a war that is not ours. Would you march into battle on nothing but promises?" His tone was calm, almost amused. "A prepayment is not just security—it is proof that our arrangement is taken seriously."

Robert exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he placed a hand over his chest.

"I swear by the gods that my prince shall pay his due," he declared solemnly. "May all the hells take my soul if I lie."

Alpheo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. He should have expected this. These men—these mongrels—still clung to the notion that a vow to the gods was as binding as iron chains. For them, an oath is proof. But for me? It is nothing.

Keeping his expression unreadable, Alpheo mirrored the gesture, his hand pressing against his own chest in mock solemnity. "Then allow me to return the courtesy," he said, his voice smooth. "I swear by the gods that I shall not renege on our agreement nor abscond with the prepayment."

There was a faint lilt of amusement in his words, just enough to make Robert's brow twitch in irritation.

"And now that we are both men of sworn honor," Alpheo continued smoothly, lowering his hand, "I see no reason why a partial payment cannot be arranged immediately."

A thick silence followed.

Robert shifted in his seat, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn't speak, but his posture betrayed him. The way his fingers tapped absently against the wood, the way his eyes flickered for the briefest moment—Alpheo saw it all.

And in that instant, he understood.

Ah, he thought, resisting the urge to smirk. The bastards don't have the coin.

No men. No money.

And yet, they still thought they could win this war.

Or worse—they thought he would fight their losing battle and then wait politely to be paid at their leisure.