Early this morning, as the four generals returned inside the massive walls of Ntsua-Ntu, the capital felt changed. The voices of the common citizens were not as lively as they were on a typical day. Perhaps it was the lingering grief for their beloved King, or perhaps the whispers had already traveled faster than a galloping horse—the news that Chinua and her army were at the doorstep.
With the heavy iron gate groaning shut behind them, the four senior generals looked at one another. The silence between them was heavy, but the look on the soldiers' faces at the gate was heavier still. The fighting spirit was gone. Batzorig realized, with a sinking heart, that the soldiers had watched the parley from the battlements. The sight of their own leaders sitting peacefully, drinking morning milk with the "invader" outside the walls, had spoken volumes. It wasn't a scene of war; it was a scene of recognition. To the soldiers, it looked like the generals had already surrendered their hearts, even if their swords were still sheathed.
As they rode toward the palace, the clatter of their horses' hooves on the cobblestones sounded lonely. The bustling marketplaces were half-empty, shopkeepers packing away their most valuable goods, their eyes darting toward the southern gate. The city wasn't preparing for a defense; it was preparing for a transition.
"They aren't looking at us for orders anymore," Yisü whispered, leaning toward Batzorig. "They are looking at us for an exit."
Batzorig didn't answer. He was looking up at the high spires of the Royal Palace, where the "Bird" sat on a stolen perch. He knew that their next task—reporting the Princess's terms to Dzhambul—would be more dangerous than sitting in the mouth of the tiger had been.
Just as Batzorig and the three generals were about to reach the next street, a small group of civilians sprinted toward them, desperate and breathless.
"General Khartsaga! Is it true?" an old man cried out, pushed forward by the surging crowd. "Will the Fourth Princess attack the city?"
"Is it true that those who surrender peacefully will not be harmed?" a woman shouted, her voice trembling as she clutched a child's hand.
Batzorig dismounted. He didn't see enemies; he saw the people he had sworn to protect. Their frightened expressions spoke louder than their frantic voices. He let out a heavy, weary sigh. "It is true," he said. "In Nue-Li, the Fourth Princess and her army did not touch a single house that had a white cloth tied to its doorstep."
The crowd went deathly silent. Eyes darted toward one another. Mothers looked at their aprons; shopkeepers looked at their banners. The seed of the "White Cloth" had been planted.
"General!" Yisü hissed, leaning down from his saddle to grab Batzorig's arm. "You cannot give them hope. If they think they can survive by surrendering, they will never help us man the walls."
"I am not giving them hope, General Yisü," Batzorig replied, his voice low and cold. "I am giving them the truth. They know her reputation. They know she is not the monster the Palace claims she is."
Realizing that the word would spread like a plague, Yisü quickly took command. "People! Do not listen to rumors! Prince Dzhambul has ordered a total lockdown for your protection. We go now to the Palace to finalize the defense. Return to your homes!"
He signaled the city guards, who began roughly pushing the crowd back with the shafts of their spears. As the generals rode away, the air was thick with the sound of slamming shutters and the frantic whispers of people already planning their escape.
The generals' warhorses carried them to the very base of the stairwell. As they dismounted, eunuchs scrambled to take the reins, their eyes downcast. The four generals began the long climb, their heavy boots thudding in a grim rhythm. Before they even reached the top, the fractured voices of a court in chaos echoed through the open doors.
"The royal decree was clear!" a minister's voice rang out, trembling but brave. "Prince Batsaikhan was named heir. The Golden Chair belongs to him!"
"But the Prince is a ghost," Gerel replied, his voice sliding through the hall like oil. He paced toward the old minister with a predatory smile. "He vanished the night of the assassination. Perhaps he fled because his conscience was too heavy with his Majesty's blood."
"You did not see it! You have no right to speak!" Esen yelled, his face flushed with rage. "You are a governor, Gerel. By Hmagol law, you have no right to stand in this circle!"
"I think differently," Dzhambul interrupted, his voice cutting through the argument like a cold wind. He looked at the council, his eyes dark. "Governor Gerel is my uncle. He stays at my invitation. Did our father not allow Chinua to sit here?"
"The Fourth Princess is a General of the Realm!" a minister countered, refusing to be silenced. "You cannot compare a war hero to a provincial governor!"
Dzhambul's lip curled. "How dare you speak to me in that tone. Guards! Take him. Five whips to remind him who holds the scepter now."
The room went cold as the guards moved in. Minister Misheel stepped forward, trying to anchor the room in reason. "Your Highness, His late Majesty forbid the punishing of ministers for their speech. We must be able to speak freely to make the kingdom strong."
Dzhambul walked slowly toward Misheel, stopping so close their breaths mingled. "Minister Misheel... I heard your son, Timicin, is a fine soldier. A hero of the Eastern Camp. He fights at Chinua's right hand, doesn't he?" He smiled, a thin, cruel line. "It makes me wonder if your 'freedom of speech' is actually the speech of a traitor."
"My loyalty is to the people," Misheel replied, standing his ground.
"Then stay with them," Dzhambul chuckled. "You and Esen are under house arrest until this 'unpleasantness' is concluded. We cannot have the families of rebels wandering the halls."
He waved a dismissive hand as the guards dragged the protesting minister toward the doors. The four generals stepped aside to let the guards pass, their faces grim masks as they finally entered the hall and locked eyes with Dzhambul.
Dzhambul's eyes scanned the room. Satisfied that his threats had silenced the loudest dissent, he began to climb the golden stairwell. Every step was a declaration of theft.
"Father, you said I could never be King," he thought, a twisted pride swelling in his chest. "But look at me. This son you thought was weak now sits where you once sat. I will rule this kingdom better than your memory ever could."
He sat, the silk of his robes rustling in the sudden silence. While the majority of the court knelt in a wave of forced loyalty, twenty ministers remained standing—stiff-backed and silent. Dzhambul rolled his eyes at them, dismissing their courage as a temporary nuisance. He turned his dark gaze to the four generals.
"So," he drawled, "I heard Chinua met you alone?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Batzorig said. He kept his eyes on the floor. To see Dzhambul sat on the throne chair while the late King's spirit still wandered the halls was a sight he could not bear.
"I gave a clear order," Dzhambul said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "If she appeared, she was to be arrested. Where is she?"
"Her Highness left after the meeting," Khartsaga replied.
"Her Highness?" Dzhambul's lip curled. "You speak of a prisoner, General. You let her escape once under your watch, and now you have let her walk away again. It makes me wonder... was her 'escape' a gift from you?"
Khartsaga, a man of iron and scars, who bled in battle even before Dzhambul was born looked him straight in the eyes. "Your Highness was not there. Perhaps if you listened to the heart of the people instead of the venom whispered in your ear, this throne could have been yours by right, not by fear."
Dzhambul's face flushed with rage. "You dare—"
"I have said what is in my heart," Khartsaga interrupted, standing like a stone tower. "If you feel I have crossed the line, then whip me alongside the others. I will not hide behind my rank."
The palace guards shifted, their spear tips wavering. Sensing a mutiny, Gerel quickly stepped forward. "The General is merely weary from the field," he said smoothly. "Tell us, what does Chinua demand?"
"She has three conditions," Baterdene said, his voice echoing in the rafters. "First: The arrest of the Second Prince for the murder of the King."
Dzhambul's heart plummeted. If she was naming the crime, she had the proof.
"Second: The gates open for Crown Prince Batsaikhan to take his throne. Third: The removal of every Sumyaa minister from this court."
"I refuse," Dzhambul snapped, his voice trembling—not with anger, but with the sudden, cold realization that he was surrounded.
"Then," Batzorig said, finally looking up with a gaze as hard as flint, "the capital will fall."
Dzhambul's laughter didn't just echo; it seemed to bounce off the cold stone walls, mocking the very history of the hall. "The city will not fall if you do your part, General," he said, settling deeper into a throne that still seemed too large for him.
"I have sworn to protect this capital with my life, and I intend to do it," Batzorig replied, his voice vibrating with a hidden fury. "But I ask that during this time, Your Highness allows the civilians who wish to leave to do so. Let the innocents clear the field."
"Your suggestion is denied," Dzhambul snapped, his laughter vanishing into a cold, sharp smirk. "Chinua loves these people, doesn't she? They call her the 'People's Princess,' don't they?"
He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a sick, dark curiosity. "Then let us see exactly how much she loves them. Let us see if she is willing to trample the very citizens who worship her just to get to me." He chuckled, a sound like dry bones rattling in the wind. "If she wants this throne, she will have to walk over their bodies to take it."