Herald of Steel

Alexander breathed the biggest sigh of relief up until this point of his life when he saw Damious take a second cup of the poison.

It meant his plan had worked and Damious could not detect the extra bitterness over the extra sweetness.

At last, the main antagonist in his path was dead and everyone and everything else could wait. 𝒃𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒐𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝙘𝙤𝒎

But what if Damious still did not die?

Well if Alexander’s poison was so shabby that even after two drinks one did not die, well then he deserved to get cucked.

Cambyses was even more relieved.

After all, she was the one actually doing the poisoning and she smiled gorgeously at Damious chugging the second drink down.

Of course, Damious saw this as his new bride happy that her husband was enjoying her cooking and even asked for a third round.

This created the image of a tombstone inside Alexander’s head and he knew he had won.

Not even Rasputin could survive three massive overdoses of slipknot juices.

After taking three drinks in quick succession, with a bit of hardtack that Cambyses offered, the leader then stated he was feeling full and asked to be excused, as he shut his eyes for a bit, promising Cambyses last minute that their wedding will be as grand as a king’s.

‘I don’t need a royal wedding with the likes of you. I only need you to die.’ Cambyses sneered in her heart, though in reality she lightly patted her ‘husband’s’ hand.

“Leader has fought two battles today and was injured in the last. I am sure he will accompany you all day tomorrow.” Gratz spoke to his to-be madam from behind.

“My only hope is that he gains back his health.” Cambyses played the part, though internally she was cheering, ‘I hope he accompanies the ferryman as soon as possible.’

“Then please stay the night in our camp. We have prepared slaves to help you get ready for the wedding.” Gratz suggested.

“I have my own slaves to help me.” Cambyses tersely shot down the suggestion.

“I am sorry, but master has instructed us to help you get ready.” Another mercenary spoke up, though his tone was more authoritarian than suggestive.

“Your master is sleeping. And seeing how your master is in love with me, as your mistress, you would do well to stay on my good side.” Cambyses showed no sign of backing down.

“Hey, if the lady does not want to go, she does not need to go.” Floated Bartholomew’s lazy voice, laced with malice and aggression.

The black, short, warrior had his hands on his sword, looking manically at the, in his eyes, distasteful mercenaries.

“Ahem,” Alexander’s small cough echoed from the tent, “This is a medical clinic. A place for healing and not killing. So let’s not draw swords here.” He politely urged.

Then he smiled knowingly, “I believe we all know why this issue is being raised. Master Damious, quite rightly, is concerned about his bride’s safety with us.”

He euphemistically said that Damious was afraid of being cucked.

“But since mistress is unwilling to go, and this gentleman here,” pointing to the mercenary to wanted to take Cambyses, “is adamant about escorting her, why don’t we reach a middle ground?”

“This will likely be the last night mistress spends with her father’s mercenary group, with people she has been with for eighteen years. So why don’t we let her stay in her tent? But she will be guarded, by one from our camp, one from leader Melodias’s group and two from your group.” Alexander suggested.

“Yes, that seems very fair.” Melodias was the first to jump on the bandwagon.

“I myself will protect the chastity of the to-be bride.” He heroically declared

“Then if mistress has no problem, we nominate Bartholomew as our candidate.” Alexander quickly joined in.

Seeing they were politically outnumbered, Grantz nominated himself, and that forceful mercenary named Heliptos as their candidate to guard the bride.

“Great, why don’t we have a round of drinks to celebrate.” Cambyses happily suggested.

She offered a second round of normal drink to Melodias, then turned to Aristotle and poured “Grandpa, this is the last of my drink. Please have some of your granddaughter’s handmade drink on her marriage night.”

Alexander knew that the drinking pot could hold upto six small cups of drink, but he did not make the compartments equal.

The upper compartment was smaller than the lower one, meaning the teapot could hold two shots of regular drink and four shots of poison.

That meant that Cambyses, using up three of her shots, had only one left, which she was offering to Aristotle.

Aristotle’s instinct still screamed that something was wrong with the drink and snapped,

“Hmph, feed it to your slave lover. I am sure he can’t wait to have a taste.”

“If you don’t want it, I will.” The fiery Heliptos greedily reached out to grab the very delicious water.

He had never tasted anything so sweet before until today, and if it wasn’t a critical medicine, he would have drank every last drop of it.

But as he was about to swallow it down, a strong firm hand gripped his arm, freezing it in place.

It was Alexander!

“That drink is from my mistress to her godfather.” Alexander slowly spelled out in a growl. “It’s not yours to drink.”

Heliptos stared back at Alexander with equal ferocity, tugging his arm to get it free.

This back-and-forth cascading of forces was evident by how the water in the small, clay cup was shaking, threatening to spill out.

Alexander was not doing truly out of selflessness.

He was afraid if two people from the same mercenary group died, it might draw too much suspicion.

Also, the bigger reason was he really wanted to kill Aristotle.

He even had the mind that if Aristotle did not want to really drink it, he would throw the drink all over him to humiliate him for not drinking something his own goddaughter had made on her marriage night.

With this thought, as the two men were locked in a weird arm wrestle, a wizened, rough voice suddenly decided the match, “Enough, give it to me” Aristotle said.

He could see the looks everyone was giving him and decided, ‘If my goddaughter wants to kill me then so be it.’

And so begrudgingly Heliptos let go of the cup and Alexander took the cup to Cambyses who presented it to Aristotle with both hands.

Cambyses was tearing herself inside over the drink.

‘Just drop it. Damious is dead. Let the old man who raised you live out the rest of his life in peace.’ A part of her heart screamed.

But then the image of her love Alexander surfaced and it drowned out all her doubts.

‘For my happiness, please die.’ Cambyses roared in her heart as she offered the small cup with hands steady as a rock.

Her limpid, caramel eyes showed no fear, no hesitation, and no anger as she stared into the experienced, haggard, black eyes.

‘So that’s how it is.’ Aristotle took the cup with a mournful sigh in his heart.

‘You have decided to offer me a poisoned drink after all, dear granddaughter.’ Aristotle came to the surprisingly correct conclusion.

The reason why the veteran came to this conclusion was not because Cambyses revealed something, but because she did not reveal something- anger and scorn!

Knowing the girl from the time she was weaned, of course, Aristotle knew her personality.

He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this marriage proposal would break her heart and possibly doom her to lifelong suffering, but for his own benefit, he did it anyway.

But now he could see none of the anger, helplessness, or even scorn in her eyes when she looked at him, only tranquility and happiness.

That probably meant she was sure that Damious would never wake up again.

Having figured this out, Aristotle surprisingly did not fight.

He had gambled one last time to try and somehow save his life’s work from falling into a slave’s hand and he had failed.

Damious was dead and faced with the reality that he was all alone and even the girl he had raised from birth had turned against him, he felt his old bones creaking and his will to live quickly fading.

Of course, he never blamed himself for making Cambyses turn against him. As a woman, her entire existence’s worth was to fulfill her male relatives’ desires.

So, taking one last at the clear liquid, he raised it and roasted, bidding goodbye to this world, “To my goddaughter’s eternal happiness. May she and her children be free from all worldly concerns.”

Then he downed it in one gulp, drowning himself in the happy memories he once shared with the little girl.

“Well, it’s been a long day, please excuse me.” Aristotle then slowly turned to return to his tent, intending to pass away in his sleep like Damious and at least spare her goddaughter from watching him die in front of him.

As the withered old man slowly walked out into the dark night, his bronze cuirass reflecting the candlelight like a lighthouse in the dark, Cambyses stared at the lonely, strong back, a lone tear unknowingly falling out of her eyes.

When today’s sun rose, could she have known that today she would lose her father, and brother, and have to kill her godfather?