The morning breeze rushed past her face, sending faint tingling across her cheeks as her eyes stared straight into the line of soldiers standing atop the forty-foot stone walls. The iron gate was shut tightly, a cold, heavy message that her arrival was not welcome. But Chinua did not flinch. She had stood before closed gates many times in her life, and every single time, she had walked through them.
She wasn't shaken by the notched arrows or the shimmering steel of the garrison. She knew every post where the archers waited; she knew the exact weight of the quivers they carried. Most importantly, she knew their hearts. Not a single man on that wall was willing to be the one to release the first arrow—to murder a mourning royal and spark a civil war that would consume them all.
She lowered herself onto the carpet that had been laid out in the dust. With calm, steady hands, she picked up a jar of mare's milk and began to pour it into four bowls. The soldiers who had assisted in setting the table retreated fifty yards, leaving her in the eerie silence between two armies.
Then, the heavy iron hinges groaned. One side of the great gate swung open. Riding out from the city were four men she knew well: Batzorig, Khartsaga, Yisü, and Baterdene. The horses stopped ten yards away, their hooves kicking up small clouds of dust. The four generals dismounted and walked to the carpet, sitting in a circle around the small wooden table.
They looked down at the map she had spread across the wood—the very one Hye had marked with charcoal back at Salran Hill. Then they looked at each other, the weight of the situation pressing down on them. They realized Dzhambul had been right about one thing: Chinua hadn't come to mourn. She had come to take.
"Fourth Princess," Batzorig said, his eyes fixed on the charcoal-stained map. "With this map here... does this mean Your Highness is not here to attend His Majesty's funeral?"
"No," Chinua replied simply. she picked up her bowl, the white mare's milk a sharp contrast to the iron of her gauntlets, and took a slow, deliberate sip. Her eyes never left them, tracking every twitch of a lip, every flicker of a gaze.
"Then what is Your Highness doing here?" Baterdene asked, his voice tightening. "You have no royal decree to be in the capital. In fact, there is a pending criminal charge against you."
"Per whom?" Chinua's smile was chilling. "The Royal Father? The Ministers? The people?" She paused, letting the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable. "Or... Dzhambul?"
The generals flinched at the name. Hearing the Second Prince addressed so casually, without his title, was like hearing a glass shatter.
"I did not summon you here to debate the legality of a traitor's decree," Chinua continued, her voice dropping to a low rumble. "I am here to offer you a way to save your men. Open the gates. Let the civilians leave. And allow any soldier who does not wish to die for a usurper to walk away."
"So, you came with a threat?" Yisü smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Hmagol soldiers aren't easily frightened, Princess."
"It is not a threat," Chinua interrupted. "It is a chance to live."
Yisü scoffed. "Your Highness, look at the facts. Your Eastern Military Camp is largely made of women. Your numbers are a fraction of the Central Military. If you attack Batzorig at the Southern Gate, the rest of us will crush you from behind. You cannot break through."
"I heard your words loud and clear," Chinua said, her smile widening into something predatory. "But do you think I would give you the opportunity to reinforce one another."
She reached into a pouch and pulled out a handful of roasted peanuts. With slow, rhythmic precision, she began to place them on the map.
Five on the Western Gate.
Seven on the Northern Gate.
Five surrounding the Central Military Camp.
Ten in a thick line before the Southern Gate.
The generals went pale as they realized the grim mathematics on the table: each peanut Chinua placed represented a thousand soldiers. The careful, silent placement of each one—with no sound other than the howling wind—was more frightening than any war cry. It signaled a level of cold, deliberate control that they hadn't expected. They knew such delicate movements meant there were always hidden truths lurking beneath what was visible.
The way Chinua rolled the peanuts in her palm before setting them down looked like a child playing with food, but the veterans saw the deadly reality: she wasn't just attacking a gate. She was pinning them in their own homes. She was neutralizing their ability to reinforce one another, turning their own defensive walls into the bars of a cage.
"Your Highness," Khartsaga said, his voice straining. "We know every inch of this city. The advantage is ours. Does this war truly need to happen? Could you and the second prince not reach an agreement?"
Chinua set her empty bowl down with a sharp clack. "I have three conditions for an agreement," she said, her eyes filled with a sudden, deep gratitude for the men who had once served her father. "First: Dzhambul is arrested for the murder of the King. Second: The gates are opened for Crown Prince Batsaikhan to take his rightful throne. Third: Every minister with the surname Sumyaa steps down immediately."
She leaned forward, her armor creaking in the silence. "Meet these, and the war ends before it begins."
"And if not?" Batzorig asked.
"Then your capital will fall."
"If you bring your soldiers and fight here, you will be a disgrace and a tyrant in the eyes of your ancestors!" Baterdene shouted. He slammed his hand onto the table with such force that the bowls clattered and the untouched mare's milk spilled into the dust. "Just because you have won a couple of battles doesn't mean you are superior to everyone!"
"Then I'll be the tyrant, since none of you will!" Chinua's voice didn't just rise; it expanded, echoing off the high stone walls of the capital. "I would rather be a tyrant in your eyes and bring peace to our people than be a coward in mine. You old fools are so blinded that you won't stand your ground for the rightful King, yet you are willing to bow your heads to the true tyrant. The man who murdered his father, accused his brother, sent assassins for his sister, and betrayed his own family name!"
She paused, the fire of her anger burning hot in the morning air.
"But I will not. In the name of the Mongke ancestors, I will not stand and watch this rotten root dig any deeper into Hmagol. Stand on the right side of history and open the gate or lead your soldiers to their graves."
"Your mind is made up?" Batzorig asked, his voice heavy.
"It is," Chinua replied. "Accept the terms, or we attack at dawn in three days."
She leaned over the map and spoke with a terrifying, calm clarity. She gave them everything: Haitao and General Chong from the North. Zhi, Khawn, Jeet, and Naksh from the West. Drystan and Azad from the East. And the terrifying Tiger Units of Hibo slamming into the Central Military Camp.
"Giving away your plan is not a good tactic," Khartsaga whispered. "It is a sign of weakness."
"I am telling you, so you know exactly where you stand," Chinua countered. "So, you can look at your men and decide if you want them to die for Dzhambul's lies. If you serve him, let this be the last humane thing you do for your conscience: let the innocent leave before the war begins."
"Your Highness," Yisü said, his eyes scanning the horizon. "The neighboring kingdoms are watching. This civil war is a golden opportunity for them to strike our borders."
"I have already sent them a message," Chinua said, her eyes flashing with a cold, sharp light. "If anyone dares to step onto our land while I settle this, I will take a hundred steps of their territory for every one they take of ours." She looked at the old men—the companions of her father. "You should know why Father stationed us as he did. Prince Chimgee in the West, me in the East, and Prince Mönkhbat in the South. We weren't stationed to guard the borders from enemies; we were stationed to hold the kingdom together from the outside in."
She turned to walk away, then stopped, looking over her shoulder with a proud, devastating smile.
"Don't remind me that I am outnumbered. There is a difference between your soldiers and mine. Yours fight because they were ordered to. Mine fight because the people they love are standing right behind them. Ask yourselves: in a battle of life and death, which soldier comes out victorious?"
She began to walk back toward her own lines. "They said Nue-Li could not be taken without heavy loss. And yet, I took it."
Chinua mounted her horse, the iron of her armor glinting one last time as she turned her back on the capital. With two young soldiers riding alongside her, she moved with a calm, steady pace toward the crest of the hill.
As she reached the top of the mountain, the horizon itself seemed to shudder and change shape. What had looked like empty ridges and tall grass suddenly shifted. One by one, then dozen by dozen, the silhouette of hundreds of soldiers began to rise slowly from the ground. They had been ghost-quiet, bellies to the earth, waiting for the slightest signal of a betrayal.
The four senior generals stood frozen at the small wooden table, the spilled mare's milk soaking into the dust at their feet. A cold realization washed over them. They were profoundly glad they had ignored Dzhambul's order to arrest her on sight. If they had so much as reached for a sword, the war would have begun right there, in that valley, and they would have been the first to fall.
They watched in silence as the line of soldiers followed Chinua over the ridge, disappearing into the East. They knew better than to send scouts; they knew that behind those jagged hills, there were thousands more—eyes fixed on the city, waiting for the dawn of the third day. The four generals stood frozen until the last silhouette vanished over the ridge, the cold realization finally sinking in: they had been sitting in the mouth of a tiger for the last hour, and the tiger had graciously chosen not to bite.