As the group approached the clearing, the reality of the small settlement came into focus. The thin wisp of smoke they had spotted from the road drifted lazily from one of five humble huts, where a middle-aged woman was busy over a small cook-fire. The moment she caught sight of the armed, weary men and the giant Mönkhbat carrying a limp body, her maternal instincts flared. She scooped a toddler from the dirt into her arms, pulling the child close as her eyes filled with wary suspicion.
Mönkhbat adjusted his heavy hold on Chinua, his expression softening into one of practiced, polite humility. "Sister-in-law," he said, his deep voice calm to avoid startling her. "We are but hunters from Ntoo Village. My sister was accidentally shot during the chase. Would you be so kind as to let us use one of the huts to tend to her wounds?"
The woman's gaze moved from Mönkhbat's scarred face to the pale, feverish woman in his arms. Seeing the blood and the gray tint of the girl's skin, her caution shifted toward pity.
"These huts belong to no one," she replied, her voice steadying. "Our village built them for the local hunters and woodcutters. You are free to use them, but..." She pointed toward the far end, to a hut facing away from the rest. "That one is already occupied by four brothers and their ill mother. And those two," she gestured to the structures nearest to her, "are taken by woodcutters who are out in the forest. They'll be back before dusk."
Naksh stepped forward, pointing to the remaining hut directly behind the woman. "So, sister-in-law, we could use this one?" The woman gave a short, solemn nod, granting them the space.
As Naksh led the way to the hut on the left, the group stared at the skeletal structure, wondering if it was truly a suitable place for Hye to perform such a delicate task. The huts were fragile things, huddled together like broken birds. Each was held together by a frame of rough-hewn pine, with walls of bamboo strips woven so loosely that the morning light sliced through the gaps in golden ribbons. The roofs were shaggy layers of yellowed straw and dried river reeds, weighed down by heavy stones to keep the mountain wind from stealing them.
The air inside was a thick, swirling cocktail of the woods. A sharp, sticky scent of freshly cut pine and cedar hung heavy in the air, a resinous smell that caught in the back of the throat. Beneath that was the humbler scent of damp earth and the faint, musty aroma of turning moss and old hay where the rain had seeped through the bamboo. Overlapping it all was the ghost of old fires—a lingering smell of charcoal and cold ash that clung to the straw walls.
As Mönkhbat carried Chinua into the shadows, the clean scent of cedar shavings on the floor was immediately invaded by the cloying, sickly-sweet smell of her infection and the copper-sharp tang of the blood soaking her bandages.
"Do you mind if I take some boiled water to clean her?" Hye asked the woman urgently.
"You are in luck," she replied with a small, tired smile. "I just finished boiling this pot for our morning meal. You can have it."
"Thank you, sister-in-law," Hye said, his relief evident as he took the heavy clay pot. "I will return it as soon as we are finished."
Hye set the steaming water down on the packed earth, the heat releasing the mineral scent of the creek. The light flickering through the bamboo walls created a strobe-like effect on Chinua's ashen skin as they laid her face-down on a bed of fresh pine needles. The time for talking had ended; the battle to keep her heart beating had begun.
Mönkhbat stood up, his head nearly brushing the straw ceiling, and signaled for the other men to follow. They stepped out of the small hut, leaving only Hye and Hibo inside to begin the grim work of cleaning Chinua's wounds. The men stood outside in a silent, outward-facing semi-circle, their backs to the bamboo walls. They acted as a human shield, blocking the entrance and guarding the opening to ensure Chinua had whatever privacy could be afforded in such a place.
Inside, the light through the bamboo gaps flickered over the bed of pine needles. Hibo moved with practiced, unsentimental efficiency as she began to peel back the blood-stiffened fabric, removing the top half of Chinua's robe.
As the silk and linen fell away, the reality of the General's life was laid bare. Her skin should have been delicate and smooth, like that of the royal peers she had grown up with in the palace—women who spent their days behind fans and embroidery hoops. Instead, Chinua's back and shoulders were a map of a decade of violence.
Her skin was rough, weathered by the sun of the steppes and the biting winds of the northeast. It was a canvas of history, filled with the raised white lines of old saber cuts and the jagged, puckered marks of arrowheads pulled from her flesh. Some scars were silvered with age; others were fresh, angry welts from recent skirmishes. Each mark was a testament to the years she had lived not as a pampered princess, but as a soldier and a commander who led from the front.
Hye let out a low, shaky breath as he saw the full extent of the damage. "Hold her shoulders, General," he whispered, reaching for the clay pot of boiled water. "The fever is high, and the blade is deep. When I pour this, she might wake."
Hye began to extract the dagger from Chinua's back, moving with agonizing slowness. He kept his eyes fixed on her face, watching for any sign of consciousness. Each time the steel shifted an inch, her brow would furrow, and her eyelids would flutter, a silent indication that the pain was reaching her through the fog of her fever.
Because the blade had been embedded in her shoulder for so long, the blood had thickened; when Hye finally eased the point out of her flesh, there was surprisingly little bleeding. He dropped the dagger to the ground with a soft, metallic clank. His hand was steady as he reached for a second knife—one he had been heating in the small fire until it glowed a dull, angry red. He looked up at Hibo, his face grim.
"I need more hands. Three of you, come in and help General Hibo hold her down," Hye called out.
Mönkhbat, Naksh and Khawn quickly ducked back into the cramped hut, the space instantly feeling smaller with their presence.
"General," Hye said, looking at Mönkhbat. He handed the veteran a folded piece of thick cloth, which Mönkhbat immediately placed between Chinua's teeth to prevent her from biting her tongue. "Whatever she does, you must pin her down until I finish cutting away the rotting flesh." He turned his gaze to Naksh and Khawn. "The two of you, take her legs. Make sure she doesn't kick."
The moment the red-hot blade touched the edge of the wound, the smell of seared flesh filled the small hut. The searing pain jolted Chinua awake instantly. Her body reacted with violent, animalistic desperation, arching off the bed of pine needles as she tried to escape the heat. She thrashed against them, her muffled screams vibrating against the cloth in her mouth, but the men held firm, their muscles straining to keep her still.
Hye worked with frantic precision, shaving off the infected, necrotic tissue before the rot could reach her bone. Halfway through the procedure, the sheer intensity of the agony overwhelmed her system, and Chinua's body went limp as she passed out again.
Despite the sudden silence, the men did not let go. They kept her pinned to the earth, their knuckles white and their breathing heavy, terrified that if they relaxed their guard and she woke a second time, it would ruin the delicate work of closing her wounds.
Hye worked in a focused trance, his needle pulling clean thread through the edges of the now-cleaned wound. The smell of scorched flesh lingered in the humid air of the hut, mixing with the scent of the pine needles crushed beneath them.
Once the final stitch was tied, Hye slumped back against the bamboo wall, his hands trembling as the adrenaline began to fade. Naksh and Khawn slowly released their grip on Chinua's legs, their own muscles aching from the effort of pinning her down. Mönkhbat gently removed the dampened cloth from her mouth, his eyes lingering on her pale, sweat-streaked face.
"She's stable," Hye whispered, wiping his brow with a bloodied sleeve. "But the fever is still a battle. We need to keep her warm and quiet."
Naksh stood up, ducking his head to avoid the low-hanging straw of the roof. "I'll check the perimeter. We can't stay in this hut forever if the Imperial Guard is sweeping the village."
He stepped out into the light, followed by Khawn, who looked pale and shaken from witnessing the surgery. The morning air was crisp, but the settlement felt unnaturally still. As they stood outside, their eyes drifted toward the far hut—the one the woman had said was occupied by "four brothers and their ill mother."
A low, rhythmic sound was coming from that direction. It wasn't the sound of wood being chopped or a child playing. It was the sound of a funeral chant, a deep, guttural prayer in the old dialect of the East—a sound meant to guide a royal soul across the great river.
Khawn froze. He knew that voice. It was Timicin.
The air inside the second hut was heavy, not with the resinous scent of wood, but with the cold, absolute stillness of death. The transition from the frantic struggle to save Chinua's life to the silent reality of Queen Qara's passing was a blow that seemed to steal the very breath from the room.
The three men stood in a line, their shadows stretching across the dirt floor toward the Queen. She looked peaceful, her features smoothed out in a way they hadn't been since the siege began, but the sight of her lying on a bed of simple straw was a jagged reminder of how far the Empire had fallen.
"Timicin," Naksh whispered, his voice cracking as he stepped into the small space.
Timicin turned, his eyes bloodshot and sunken from a night of mourning. He rose slowly to his feet; his shoulders slumped under a weight no armor could protect against. When he saw Mönkhbat and the others, his face crumpled.
"General," Timicin said, his voice a ragged shadow of its former strength. "I am so sorry. I failed you... I failed her."
Mönkhbat stepped forward, his massive hand coming down gently on Timicin's shoulder. There was no anger in the General's eyes, only a shared, bone-deep exhaustion. "You did good, soldier," he said softly. "You stayed with her to the end. That is all a soldier can do. Where are the others?"
"Jeet, Drystan and Cong are in the woods," Timicin replied, wiping his eyes with a grime-stained sleeve. "They are fashioned a stretcher to carry Her Majesty to the rendezvous. But... since you are here, perhaps there is no longer a reason to run so far."
Mönkhbat looked at the men, his sigh heavy with a weight that felt greater than his armor. He looked back toward the first hut, where the Prince waited and where Chinua lay between life and death.
"Soldiers," Mönkhbat said, his voice barely a whisper in the cold morning air. "Do you think now is the right time to tell Chinua and the Crown Prince of Her Majesty's death... or do we let them keep their hope for one more day?"
The men stood in the shadows of the bamboo walls, looking at the Queen's still face and then at each other. No one spoke. No one moved. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic thud of a woodcutter's axe in the forest—marking the time they were running out of.