The voices of the people rose and fell, echoing off the stone walls of the packed streets like a physical weight. A young man moved through the press of bodies, his left hand gripping his wife's fingers so tightly his knuckles were white, while his right arm held his three-year-old child against his chest.
They were retreating from the West Gate, fleeing the "marked line" and the terrifying shadow of the Spear God. Their feet carried them toward the South, then pivoted toward the East. In their minds, they were calculating the mercy of men they had never met. They knew the reputations of the generals; they believed that if anyone would dare to defy the Prince and open a path for the innocent, it would be Khartsaga or Batzorig.
But as the heavy, barred timber of the South Gate remained motionless, a new, cold reality set in. Their options were vanishing. Their last, desperate hope was the East Gate—not knowing that the "wolves" of Salran Hill were waiting on the other side.
The young man didn't look back as he navigated the sea of panicked bodies. His left hand was a lifeline, anchored to his wife's trembling fingers. Across both of their foreheads, tied with desperate precision, were the white straps of the rebellion. Even the three-year-old clutched in his right arm wore the mark, the pale fabric stark against her small, soot-stained face.
The child was a haunting image of the city's soul. Her eyes were wide, fixed in a stare of pure, unadulterated fright, yet she remained eerily quiet. There were no tantrums, no whimpering. Each time a group of frantic citizens rushed past them, or the distant sound of a soldier's shout echoed down the alley, she simply buried her face deeper into her father's chest, trying to disappear into his heartbeat.
They were ghosts walking through a city that was rapidly becoming a tomb. They pushed toward the East Gate, their boots treading over discarded belongings and the "marked lines" of a government that had abandoned them. To them, the white cloth wasn't an act of war—it was a plea to the "People's Princess" to recognize them when the walls finally crumbled.
Khartsaga's heart dropped, the sensation like a free-fall into a bottomless black hole. The air around him felt cold and stagnant. He hadn't even found the courage to decide the fate of the two scouts outside when a new crisis slammed into him.
He rushed to the inner edge of the rampart and looked down. Hundreds of civilians, ranging from the elderly leaning on canes to toddlers carried in trembling arms, moved toward the gate. Every single one of them wore a white cloth tied tightly across their forehead.
"What are they doing?" Khartsaga asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"General," a nearby soldier replied, his own voice thick with uncertainty. "The rumors... they say the Fourth Princess will spare anyone who surrenders. The white cloth is their signal. They are surrendering to her while still inside our walls."
Khartsaga closed his eyes, exhaling a long, weary sigh. When he opened them, the conflict was gone, replaced by a grim clarity. He descended the stone stairwell, his boots heavy on the steps, his gaze fixed on the sea of white headbands.
He pushed past his own line of soldiers and stood face-to-face with the crowd. "The Prince has ordered these gates closed," he said, the guilt tasting like ash in his mouth. "If I open them, I risk thousands of enemy troops rushing the city."
"General Khartsaga, the Ginmiao are at the North Gate!" a man shouted from the crowd. "General Chong and his captains are already there. We know the city is lost!"
"The Fourth Princess shows mercy to strangers," a woman cried out, clutching her child. "She will not be less merciful to her own kin! Let us out!"
"Do you even know who is standing outside right now?" Khartsaga roared, silencing the throng. He pointed a shaking finger toward the heavy timber of the gate. "The Salran Hill Bandits! If I open this gate, you are walking into your grave!"
The response was immediate and chilling. "We would take that chance!"
"Yes! A fifty-fifty chance with bandits is better than being slaughtered by the Ginmiao when the walls fall!"
Khartsaga looked at the faces—the desperation, the hope, the white straps. He realized then that Dzhambul had already lost the city; he had lost the people's hearts.
"Open the gate," Khartsaga commanded.
"General!" his soldiers cried out in shock. "Please, rethink this!"
"If the Fourth Princess truly lives up to her word, the Salran Hill Bandits will not move. Today is only the second day," Khartsaga said sadly. He didn't stay to watch. He turned and began the long climb back to the ramparts; his shoulders hunched under the weight of his treason.
The East Gate groaned, the massive iron bolts sliding back with a sound like a dying beast. The doors swung open. The people didn't run. They walked out steadily, a slow, white-marked tide, testing the air to see if they would be killed by the bandits in front of them or the soldiers behind.
From a distance, seated around a small, crackling campfire, Azad was tearing a drumstick off a roasted chicken. He looked more like a hunter on a break than a man sieging a capital. Suddenly, a bandit rushed into the light of the fire and dropped to one knee.
"Young Chief!" the bandit gasped.
"What's up?" Azad asked, his voice muffled by a mouthful of chicken.
"The Eastern Gate is open," the scout reported, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Azad froze. He stood up slowly, the grease from the meat smearing the corner of his mouth as he chewed. He looked toward the horizon, where the massive silhouettes of the East Gate had indeed swung wide. A slow, steady stream of white-marked civilians was pouring out into the open field, stepping into the "grave" they had feared.
Azad's eyes crinkled as a slow, shark-like smile spread across his face. He didn't order an attack. He didn't reach for his blade.
"Send a message to Hye," Azad said, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes. "The golden bridge is built."
The bandit scrambled up, the dirt kicking up beneath his boots as he lunged for his horse. With a practiced leap, he was in the saddle, and the animal took off like a shot from a bow.
He didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, he gripped a vivid yellow flag, the fabric snapping violently in the wind as he rode. His eyes were locked on the horizon, toward the South Gate where the main body of the Eastern Soldiers stood in a massive, disciplined block.
As he galloped across the open field between the bandit camp and the royal army, the yellow flag served as his shield. To the soldiers on the walls, it was a mystery; to the soldiers in the field, it was the signal they had been waiting for. The messenger rode as if his life depended on it, the golden fabric a streak of light across the battlefield, carrying the news that the first wall had finally cracked.
Inside the Hmagol Throne Hall, the air was thick with the scent of unlit incense and the stagnant weight of fear. The morning was supposed to be a celebration of Dzhambul's coronation, but the golden decorations now felt like a mockery.
The ministers stood in uneasy silence; their eyes fixed on the floor as Dzhambul slowly massaged his forehead. The threat at the North Gate—the legendary Ginmiao of Nue-Li City—was no longer a report on a piece of parchment. It was a roar at their doorsteps.
"Your Highness," one minister said, tentatively stepping forward. "Many of us agree... given the Ginmiao are lurking at our gates, we wish for Your Highness to first make peace with the Fourth Princess."
"She is still a Magoli," another added quickly. "She will not turn from her countrymen and let a foreign enemy sack our city."
"To show our sincerity," a third suggested, "Your Highness should accept one of her terms. Remove those of the surname Sumyaa from the royal court—temporarily."
"Do you think removing us will do you any good?" a Sumyaa minister spat, stepping forward with a hand on his belt.
"If the North Gate falls and the Ginmiao take over, do you think you will still hold a title?" the first minister shot back. "There will be no place for us then. Only death."
The argument was cut short by the frantic clatter of boots. A soldier rushed in, sliding to his knees before the throne. "Report!"
"Speak," Dzhambul said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"General Khartsaga has opened the Eastern Gate," the soldier gasped, his head bowed low. "He is allowing the civilians to flee the city."
The air seemed to leave the room. Dzhambul's body slammed back into the throne, his eyes darkening until they looked like pits of obsidian. The silence that followed was more terrifying than the Ginmiao drums.
"Take my order," Dzhambul said, each word dripping with cold venom. "Arrest Khartsaga and his entire family. Execute them tomorrow morning."
A collective gasp echoed through the hall, a sound of pure shock that bounced off the high, gilded ceilings. But amidst the kneeling, terrified Magoli ministers, those bearing the Sumyaa surname did not drop to their knees. Instead, they stood tall, a few of them scoffing lightly. To them, the sound of an execution order was the sound of victory. They had won the battle of words, and they were more than happy to watch the city's greatest protector fall if it meant their influence remained untouched.
"Your Highness, please withdraw the order!"
Ministers dropped to their knees, their robes rustling like dry leaves. "He is a decorated General! The people love him!"
Dzhambul looked down at the kneeling men, his face a mask of iron. "My order is final. And those who plead for the traitor Khartsaga will be beheaded alongside him."