CHAPTER 440: CHOOSING LIKE ITS SHOPPING

Inside the Quarry

The ground trembled with labour. Sparks flew from anvils. Lava-lit furnaces hissed. Men and women worked like machines, arms blackened with soot, eyes too tired to care who walked among them.

"They don’t look very... diplomatic," Jean muttered, dodging a cart of molten ore.

"They’re not," Alaric said. "But if they believe we’re fighting for something greater than the king... they might just side with us."

They stopped before a central forge, where an older man stood, shirtless, arms scarred, and muscles taut with decades of command. His grey beard was braided with copper rings, his eyes sharp as the blade he was inspecting.

"The demon prince himself," he said, not looking up. Salviana glanced at her husband and back to the man. "Didn’t think I’d see your cursed face again."

Alaric exhaled. "You owe me a debt, Vicih. I’m here to cash it."

"You’re wanted by the king."

"And I’d rather die than kneel to him again."

That made Vicih pause.

He looked up, gaze drifting from Alaric to Salviana—whose presence lit like holy flame in the smoky forge. Then to Jean, silent and observant. Then Lucius, whose eyes whispered death.

"You came with saints and monsters," Vicih grunted. "I can’t tell if you’re building a kingdom... or a grave."

Alaric stepped closer. "Maybe both."

A beat.

Then Vicih handed him the blade. "Then let’s see if you still know how to fight."

The clang of steel. The hiss of fire. The eyes of the forge bore witness to the gamble of a fallen prince.

Alaric stood at the centre of the quarry’s largest ring—circular, surrounded by anvils and smoldering coals, with workers pausing mid-strike to watch.

Lucius leaned against a column, arms folded, while Salviana and Jean stood nearby, both tight-lipped. The air was thick with smoke, but the tension crackled hotter than any furnace.

Vicih—the quarry foreman, once commander of an iron legion—stepped into the ring, rolling his scarred shoulders. He tossed aside his outer vest, revealing corded muscle hardened by decades at the forge.

"Let’s talk terms one last time, boy," Vicih said, voice rough as gravel. "You win—you get access to our forge, weapons, armory, and manpower. You lose—I call the king’s men, and you’re dragged back to Wyfkeep in chains."

Alaric nodded slowly. His sword glinted under the morning sun. "Then pray your steel remembers how to scream."

Vicih grinned, unsheathing a broadsword blackened by age and battle. "Let’s see if the prince still bleeds like a man."

The ring fell silent.

Then—with a blur of movement—the first strike rang out.

Clang!

Alaric blocked, pivoted, and spun low, sweeping his blade toward Vicih’s side. The foreman parried with a grunt, stepping back with surprising grace for a man his size.

"Still quick," Vicih muttered. "But you fight like a man with nothing to lose."

"That’s because I have everything to protect." Alaric lunged.

Steel bit air and sparked against steel. The ground beneath them trembled from each clash.

Salviana clenched her fists. Jean’s eyes followed every motion.

Lucius watched without blinking, lips curled in something close to pride. "Show them, war prince," he whispered.

Inside Alaric’s Mind

Every battle is a rhythm. Breathe. Move. Break. Strike.

He remembered blood on snow, remembered leading charges, remembered silence after victory. But this wasn’t war.

This was a gamble. For hope.

He ducked under a swing, rolled, and came up with a cut across Vicih’s thigh.

The older man grunted but didn’t fall. "That’s all you’ve got, princeling?"

"Not even close."

They clashed again, Alaric pushing harder now. A shoulder bash. A spin. Then—

CLANG!

His sword knocked Vicih’s from his grip, sending it skidding across the dirt.

Panting, Vicih fell to one knee, sweat trailing down his face, one hand braced on the ground.

Alaric pressed the tip of his sword to the man’s shoulder—not deep, just a promise. "Call your men if you want, but know this: I won’t fall quietly. And I won’t fall alone."

Vicih looked up at him... and laughed.

A slow, deep, genuine laugh.

"You arrogant bastard," he said. "You always did have the king’s fire in you."

He stood, raised his hands in surrender, and turned to the watching forge workers.

"Men of the mountain! Ready the anvils, sharpen your steel, and open the gates to the prince of flame. We ride with him."

A cheer erupted. Iron clanged on iron. Sparks danced in the smoky air like stars over battlefield fire.

Alaric stepped back, breathing hard.

Salviana ran to him. "Alaric...?"

He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. "I told you. I’ll build you a kingdom."

Lucius smirked, striding past. "Then let’s get to work. We have a war to finish."

Jean, stunned but smiling, nodded. "And allies to win."

The mountain winds howled again—but this time, it sounded like drums.

The armory of Wyfstone Quarry was a vault of legend.

Iron racks lined the stone walls, each one gleaming with weapons older than dynasties. Shields with forgotten crests. Blades etched with runes. Breastplates that had weathered real wars, not parades.

When Alaric and his companions entered, the blacksmiths stepped aside like priests parting from the altar.

"Welcome to the bones of the mountain," the armory master said, bowing. "Take what you need. Our forge belongs to you now."

Alaric’s boots echoed across the stone floor as he walked slowly through the vault. His fingers brushed over the polished curve of a crescent axe. "We won’t take your men," he said, voice calm but firm. "Only your steel. We need shelter tonight, and come dawn—we vanish."

The armoury master nodded with understanding. "That’s wise. The less who know, the better."

It was like a royal shopping spree.

Lucius had already found a long, obsidian-colored coat of mail that shimmered like oil in moonlight. "Oh, darling. This looks like something I could kill someone beautifully in," he said, stroking it.

Jean raised an eyebrow. "You say that about everything you wear."

He grinned. "Because I mean it."

Nearby, Salviana gasped. "Alaric! Look at this one!"

She held up a silver-gilded breastplate etched with phoenix feathers, clearly ceremonial—but still usable in battle.

Alaric turned and cocked a brow. "It’s too heavy for you."

"I am a princess," Salviana huffed, sticking her chin out proudly. "And this says divine regality and slight menace."

"It says you’ll tip over and need a hand getting up," Jean laughed.

Salviana winked. "Then let my prince come rescue me."

Alaric, unable to help the smile, moved toward her. He took the armour from her hands, tested its weight, and handed it back. "You can wear it—if you ride beside me tomorrow."

"Only if we win the battle and kiss in front of everyone," she teased.

"We do that anyway," Lucius muttered from the back, spinning a dagger with far too much affection.