What Alpheo meant, though cloaked in the silk of contempt and delivered like a man swatting flies from his wine, was that while certainly possible to put an end to the war completely through military means, it wasn't in his immediaty interest, as it was simply too bothersome.
Yes, it was bothersome , but only in the way cleaning up after a feast is bothersome.
The heavy lifting had already been done—the armies crushed, the rebellion's back snapped like a dry twig beneath a boot—but a few pieces remained on the board: stubborn, proud pieces holed up in high towers and stone keeps. If he truly wished to erase the last embers of resistance, all it would take was time, patience, and blood.
Three castles. That was the count. Three lordly fortresses still fluttering traitor banners like a drunk waving a knife in a tavern brawl long since lost. And yes—on paper, they could be taken. The art of siege was as old as war itself, and the White Army knew its lines well.
