Feast(1)

Alpheo caught his reflection in a polished shield leaning against the tent post—and barely recognized the man staring back. Gone was the mercenary in his practical chainmail. In his place stood a figure straight out of some minstrel's romantic tale, draped in finery that would make a courtier weep with envy.

The crimson silk cloak draped over his shoulders wasn't just fabric—it was pure elegance , its rich folds cascading like liquid fire with every slight movement. The way it caught the torchlight made it seem alive, shimmering like the last embers of a dying sunset. Beneath it, his midnight blue velvet doublet clung to his frame, its plush texture so decadent he almost felt guilty touching it. The tailor had assured him the color brought out his eyes—whatever that meant, as his eyes were as dull as stones.

His black leather trousers were supple enough to move in, though they felt absurdly luxurious compared to his usual battle-worn gear. The only concession to practicality was his well-worn boots, scuffed from countless marches. No new boots among the prince's gifts, he mused wryly. A shame. But then again, a man can't have everything.

Egil's sharp whistle cut through his thoughts. "By the gods, is that a lord I see, or has some peacock escaped the royal menagerie?" The horselord was already preening in his own silk jacket, running a hand down the sleek fabric with exaggerated admiration.

Laedio, usually the quiet one, couldn't resist joining in. "Nah, lords are supposed to move with grace. This one still walks like he's wearing full plate." He stretched his arms, marveling at the unfamiliar comfort of silk against his skin. "Never thought I'd wear something this soft without someone trying to kill me for it."

Jarza, meanwhile, looked like a bear forced into a child's tunic. The largest jacket they could find strained against his massive shoulders, the seams threatening mutiny. He tugged at the collar with a scowl. "This thing's tighter than a noose."

Egil grinned. "Blame the gods for making you a mountain disguised as a man. Maybe next time, they'll gift you a tent instead of a shirt."

Asag, ever the silent sentinel, hadn't bothered changing. He sat on the edge of Alpheo's bed, watching the spectacle with his usual detached calm.

"Still sure you won't join us?" Egil pressed, waggling his brows. "Feasts mean wine, and wine means loose lips—and looser women."

"Someone's got to keep the men from burning down the camp," Asag muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Egil sighed dramatically. "Your dedication is truly inspiring. Want us to smuggle you back a roast chicken? A flagon of something strong?"

"I'm good."

"Suit yourself." Egil turned back to the others, mischief dancing in his eyes. "As for me, tonight's mission is clear: find a warm bed and a warmer welcome."

Jarza snorted. "You'll be lucky if you wake up with just a knife at your throat. Father, brothers, uncles—they'll all come for your head once they find out their precious flower spent the night with a sellsword."

Egil clutched his chest in mock horror. "You wound me! I'm a romantic, not a rogue!" Then, with a sly grin: "Besides, if things go sour, can't I count on my favorite giant to come swinging to my rescue?"

Jarza spat on the ground. "I'll be the one holding you down while they sharpen the blade."

Clio smirked as he reached up to cup Jarza's face with mocking tenderness. "You say you'd let him die," he teased, thumb brushing the giant's cheekbone, "but we all know you'd be the first to paint the walls with his killers' blood."

Jarza didn't blink. "Aye. But he'd still be dead."

"Good enough for me!" Egil declared, throwing his arms wide. "Just swear you'll avenge me properly—slow and loud, so the bards can sing about it. I'll even leave you my favorite dagger in my will!" He paused. "...Assuming the angry father doesn't take it when he cuts my head off."

Alpheo clapped his hands sharply, cutting through the banter like a general calling troops to order. "Enough! Two months ago, we were eating dirt and calling it seasoning. Tonight?" He gestured to their finery. "We dine where the wine costs more than your armor."

Laedio ran a hand over his silk-clad chest, marveling. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"Neither did I," Clio admitted. "Figured we'd die in some ditch long before nobles let us sniff their silverware."

"Listen close," Alpheo commanded, stepping into the center of their loose circle. "High society's like a temple whore—all holy airs by daylight, but when the candles gutter? They'll suck you dry and still charge extra for the pleasure." He spat for emphasis. "And to them? We're the dirt they scrape off their boots before prayer."

He began pointing at each man like a general deploying troops:

"Egil—you eat, you smile, and you drink one cup. Not two."

Egil opened his mouth to protest.

"Because at cup two," Alpheo barreled on, "you'll try to fuck anything that moves—goat, guard, or grandmother. And no one will stop you. Because watching a mercenary hang is their idea of dessert."

Jarza rumbled a laugh.

"You—" Alpheo jabbed a finger at the giant. "Glare at anyone who looks at us sideways. Make them piss themselves quietly."

Jarza cracked his knuckles. "Easy."

"Laedio." Alpheo turned to the quietest of them. "Be as charming as a dagger in the ribs."

Laedio grinned—a rare, unsettling sight. "My specialty."

"Clio..." Alpheo paused, then shrugged. "You're fine. Just stand there looking pretty."

Clio preened, running a hand through his hair. "Finally, someone acknowledges my talents."

Alpheo's voice dropped to a battlefield growl. "These silken vultures will be waiting for one misstep. One wrong word. One hiccup at the wrong moment." He grabbed Egil's shoulder. "So you stick to me like a virgin to his first whore. Three meters away? I'll knock your teeth so far down your throat you'll shit enamel."

"What if a lovely lady—" Egil began.

"I will gild you," Alpheo snarled. "As in, cover you in molten gold ''

Egil sighed. "Do it in the morning. I look terrible before noon."

Alpheo dragged a hand down his face. "I love you idiots like brothers," he muttered. "Which is why I'd rather not watch you get flayed alive for pinching some lordling's wife's arse." 

Despite their protests, Alpheo had to resort to more pleading and the promise of a night in the warehouse, paid for by their boss, before they finally relented. It was a concession, one Alpheo was more than willing to make if it meant they would all leave the feast with all parts attached.