Drystan stood dead-center in the Royal Court, a pillar of rugged stone amidst a sea of flowing silk and polished jade. The air in the hall was heavy with the scent of expensive incense, but all he could smell was the sudden, sharp tension of the men surrounding him.
The high-ranking officials didn't just look at him; they dissected him. Their eyes rolled over him with a slow, rhythmic disdain, tracing the unfamiliar breadth of his shoulders and the weathered texture of his skin. To them, he was a specimen from a forgotten map—a man whose presence in the hallowed halls of power was an affront to a thousand years of tradition.
He felt the weight of a hundred stares studying his deep blue eyes—eyes the color of a winter ocean that didn't belong in this climate. They lingered on his hair, a thick mane of golden blonde that caught the light of the high lanterns, shimmering like forbidden coin. He knew what they were wondering: How does a man who looks like a barbarian walk with the grace of a wolf? How did Chinua find something so strange, and why did she trust it?
He almost wanted to laugh. Back in Hmagol, the others had mocked him. "You're a bandit, Drystan," they had teased while he sharpened his steel. "You know how to slip through the cracks and vanish into the shadows. You're the only one who can walk into that snake pit and walk back out." None of them had been brave enough to follow him; they preferred the honesty of a battlefield to the silent daggers of a courtroom.
High above the floor, seated upon a throne that seemed to radiate a cold, absolute authority, King Es Ke leaned forward. His royal robes, embroidered with the symbols of his ancient lineage, rustled like dry leaves. He peered through narrowed eyes, his gaze traveling from Drystan's sturdy, travel-worn boots up to his defiant jawline. The King's face was a mask of calculated confusion, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the gold-leaf armrest of his throne.
"Envoy... pardon me," Es Ke began, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, dripping with a condescension that was meant to remind everyone in the room of the vast distance between a monarch and a thief. "Your name again? It seems to have slipped the royal record."
The tall man didn't bow. He didn't blink. He simply met the King's gaze with a cold, steady clarity.
"Drystan," he said, the foreign name cutting through the imperial silence like a blade. "The name is Drystan."
"For years, Hmagol has sent no one our way," Es Ke mused, studying Drystan's face as if it were a map of a foreign territory. "Why has King Batukhan suddenly decided to send a man like you? Tell us, what does he wish to discuss?" He offered a thin, practiced smile. "We have kept our peace. We have not crossed the Eastern border once, learning well from the failures of our fathers. So, speak—is it business? Free passage? Trading routes?"
Drystan met the King's gaze without flinching. "I am sure Your Majesty already knows the answer to that."
Es Ke snapped his golden fan open, the silk whispering as he fanned himself. He watched the foreigner, wondering how much this "envoy" truly knew. If the messenger knew the King was already aware of the turmoil in Hmagol, then the message itself was a test.
"I do not believe in rumors," Es Ke said smoothly. "But since you bring it up, I will assume they are true. So, are you here to invite us to King Batukhan's funeral? Or perhaps to celebrate a coronation?"
"Neither," Drystan replied.
"Then why are you here?" a court official barked, his voice echoing harshly against the stone pillars.
Drystan ignored the man entirely, keeping his eyes on the throne. "As I said, I am here to deliver a message to Your Majesty."
"Oh? And who sent this message?" Es Ke asked with a wicked, predatory grin.
"Chinua, the Eastern General of Hmagol," Drystan said. For the first time, a chill settled over the room. "Her message is this: while Hmagol is locked in civil war, Paayasian soldiers are not to cross the Eastern border by a single step. For every one step a Paayasian soldier takes into her land, Chinua will reclaim a hundred after the war is won."
The courtroom erupted. Officials cursed and hissed, insulted by the audacity of a foreigner threatening a King. Es Ke's laughter cut through the noise, sudden and sharp, silencing the room instantly. He stood and began to clap, the sound slow and mocking.
"What a wonderful message," the King said, stepping down the shimmering golden stairs. "This King has received the Eastern General's threat." He stopped three steps from the floor, his sinister smile widening. "Is there anything else, brave Drystan?"
Drystan let out a short, rough laugh. "I am no envoy. I am just a bandit who was paid to carry a message."
"I see." Es Ke reached into his robes, pulled out a heavy piece of carved jade, and tossed it. Drystan caught it mid-air. "Then take this as payment to send my reply: tell the Eastern General that I will not step across her border."
"Consider it delivered," Drystan said with a smirk. He turned and took five steps toward the exit before pausing to scratch the back of his head, as if remembering a minor detail. "By the way... the General also said that anyone who associates with Prince Dzhambul, or any land that offers him refuge... she will take that, too."
He didn't wait for a reaction. Drystan's laughter echoed down the long corridor as he vanished from sight.
"Preposterous!" an official roared. "This is an insult to our kingdom!"
"We should take Pojin now!" an old general argued, stepping forward. "Their King is dead, their Prince is a cripple, and their court is in chaos. This is the perfect time for war!"
"Quiet," Es Ke commanded. The room fell into a suffocating silence. He walked slowly back up to his throne and sat, crossing his legs and resuming the slow wave of his fan. "If the rumors are true, this Eastern General is not someone to cross lightly. She did not send an army; she sent a single man to tell us she is watching. She is smarter than the generals I have faced before."
His eyes narrowed as he looked toward the exit, a spark of genuine intrigue flickering in his mind. "Interesting. Truly interesting." A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. "I find myself craving it—the chance to face this woman on the battlefield and see if her steel matches her reputation."
The dusty horizon of the Salran Hill pass, once silent and foreboding, suddenly pulsed with life. The bandits of the rocky hillside, hidden within the jagged folds of the mountain, were masters of the terrain, their eyes trained to catch the slightest shimmer of steel or the rise of a dust cloud.
"How many do you see!" a voice barked from a camouflaged crevice, the sound echoing flatly against the sun-baked stone.
"One!" another bandit shouted back, his eye pressed hard against the brass rim of a telescope. He squinted through the heat haze, adjusting the lenses until the blur sharpened into a chaotic whirl of sand and hooves. "Just one rider! But there's too much dust—I can't tell if it's Drystan or a scout!"
The tension on the ridge was thick enough to taste. Archers tightened their grips on their recurve bows, the notched arrows trembling slightly in the wind. They waited, frozen in the silence of the high pass, until a new sound broke through the thundering hooves: the bright, rhythmic jingling of bells.
The archers immediately relaxed their stance, waving their hands frantically to the men on the opposite ridge. "Lower your bows! It's the bells! It's Drystan!
"Go tell Chinua! The Drystan has returned!"
The youngest bandit didn't wait for a second command. He dove into a concealed opening in the rock, entering a sprawling network of tunnels that honeycombed the earth beneath Salran Hill. This was the true heart of the bandit stronghold—a subterranean maze where thousands could hide in plain sight.
"What's the rush, boy?" a grizzled fighter yelled, pulling his feet back as the youth sprinted past a row of resting men.
"Drystan! He's back from the Payapasa Kingdom!" the boy hollered over his shoulder, his voice echoing through the dark, torch-lit corridors.
He didn't slow down, zigzagging through the narrow passages with the agility of a mountain goat, heading straight for the central chamber where the General awaited her news.
With practiced ease, the boy wove through the fortress's deadly defenses. He moved with a rhythmic certainty, his feet finding the safe, "dead" stones while his shadow flickered over the triggers of hidden crossbows. He emerged into the echoing expanse of the Internal Reservoirs. Here, the sheer scale of the kingdom's preparation was visible: massive stone basins carved directly into the mountain, designed to catch every drop of runoff. Even if an army surrounded them for a year, these depths ensured ten thousand souls would never go thirsty.
He passes through the Great Echo Chamber, a central hub designed to amplify the sound of approaching footsteps from the surface, giving the bandits a five-minute head start before an enemy even reaches the door.
Finally, he reaches the "Heart"—the central command room where the air is cool and the stone is carved into maps of the empire and sitting at the table were no other than Chinua herself as she was talking to Hye.
Chinua sat at the head of the table, her face pale but her eyes burning with a cold, renewed light. Across from her, Hye was leaning over a series of scrolls, his fingers tracing the logistics of their supply lines.
"General," the young boy panted, coming to a halt before the table.
"What is it, young soldier?" Chinua asked. She didn't look annoyed by the interruption; she looked like a commander who was finally ready for the next move.
"Drystan has returned."
"Oh," Jeet chimed in, stepping out from the shadows near the back of the room. He rubbed his hands together, a wide, cocky grin spreading across his face. "You see? Drystan was the best choice. I told you that foreigner has a way of coming back alive." He laughed, the sound bouncing off the smooth stone walls.
"Keep laughing, you dickhead," Drystan's voice rumbled. He emerged from a side corridor, his boots caked in Payapasa dust, and his golden hair tangled from the ride. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp.
The room fell silent. Chinua's gaze locked onto him. "So," she asked, her voice steady. "What did Es Ke decide?"
Without a word, Drystan reached into his vest and flicked his wrist. A streak of pale green flew through the air. Chinua caught it mid-air with a snap of her fingers. She opened her hand to reveal the Royal Jade.
"He said he and his soldiers will not cross your border," Drystan reported. He reached out, took the bowl of water right out of Chinua's hand, and drained it in several long, thirsty gulps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "But he's curious. He's going to be watching that border like a hawk waiting for a mouse to trip."
"Good," Chinua murmured, her thumb tracing the cool, smooth surface of the jade. It was more than a gift; it was a contract of non-interference. "He thinks he is the spectator. Let him watch."
Hye leaned over the map, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the territory held by Prince Dzhambul. A dark, satisfied smile spread across his face.
"Now that the seed has been planted," Hye whispered, "it's time to cage the bird."