Chapter 663: Ends of game(3)
"It is my fault," Cretio muttered with a low growl, the weight of frustration heavy in his voice, "to have ever lent my ears to your nonsense in the first place."
His glare, sharp as a drawn dagger, was aimed squarely at Thalien, who remained unshaken—lounging with the same casual elegance one might expect from a poet mid-recital rather than a noble amidst the collapse of a besieged city.
Thalien’s eyebrows lifted in mock offense, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.
"Not being taken seriously?" he said, his tone brimming with irony, "My lord, do I strike you as a jester? Am I painted up like a mummer prancing about in a traveling troupe? If so, then I must be the best-dressed fool in Herculia."
Cretio exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. The throbbing in his skull had returned. "Let’s cast aside, just for a moment," he began, voice dry as autumn leaves, "the utter madness of what you’re proposing. Even if I were to entertain this fever dream of yours, have you thought about what it entails?"
He leaned back, eyes dark and hollow. "To pass between those siege lines... you would need to scale not one, but two barricaded walls, each crawling with more patrols than fleas on a dog’s back. Add to that the enemy scouts roaming the plains, the Peasant Prince’s Hounds’ riders and you’ve got yourself a gauntlet fit for myth."
Cretio turned away, looking toward the shuttered window, as if trying to glimpse the stars beneath all the smoke.
"You’d save us time if you just rode out and surrendered yourself. At least then, we wouldn’t have to clean your remains off the ramparts.Still why in all hells would it have to be you and not some other men in my service?"
"Because, dear uncle," Thalien began, tapping his nose with the flair of a street conjurer revealing the trick behind the trick, "proceeding from the very theory we both now find more than plausible, that my father believes the city has fallen, what we need is not merely a message."
He paused, letting the thought steep.
"We need proof. We need someone whose word cannot be cast aside like a rumor in the wind. If we send a nameless rider, he might be mistaken for a spy . The Peasant Prince is a cunning bastard, and my father would rightly suspect deception, believing the man to be in the enemy’s service . A trap. That is the Mud Prince’s way of style after all..."
He tilted his head, his voice lowering with gravity.