The air in the Grand Council Hall of Hmagol was suffocatingly thick, heavy with the scent of burning beeswax and the cold sweat of terrified politicians.
At the head of the chamber, sitting upon the iron throne, sat King Baatsaikhan. The golden headband across his forehead caught the dim, unstable light of the iron candle chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Flanking the space below the throne, seated at their designated wooden tables and plush cushions, were his ministers—a wall of vibrant silk robes and silver-trimmed coats, their faces pale and drawn.
In the absolute center of the room stood Yisü. His boots were still caked with the dark soil of a foreign land, and his hand remained instinctively clenched around the hilt of his sword. He hadn't changed out of his armor; the dried mud of the Eastern campaign still clung heavily to his greaves, and the faint, unmistakable scent of ozone, rain, and iron seemed to follow the fearful eyes of the seated ministers.
After Baatsaikhan finished reading the dispatch, he handed the parchment to Tong, who took it reverently and placed it on the side table beside the throne.
"Please take your seat, Captain Yisü. The Eastern General has written of two urgent matters," Baatsaikhan said. His sharp eyes swept across the assembly. He knew knowingly in his heart that the two pieces of news he was about to break would be wildly opposed by the court, but deep inside, he knew Chinua's vision had to happen. Before he even opened his mouth, his choice was already made.
"First, the Eastern General has successfully secured our border and crossed into Kark City. From this day onward, we will officially annex that sector of Payapasa; it now belongs to Hmagol. Secondly, the Eastern General intends to push forward with this invasion to take Ngabo City. As we all know, Kark and Ngabo are separated by the Kaxi River. If we secure Ngabo, we will no longer share a land border with Payapasa, as the Kaxi River will completely separate our nations." He stared down at the politicians. "What are your opinions on this matter?"
He paused, letting the staggering weight of his words sink into the council.
Minister Tarkhan rose from his cushion, turned toward the throne, and offered a tight, formal bow. "Your Majesty, as of this moment, the treasury is bleeding," his voice echoed off the high, timbered ceilings, thin and strained with panic. "Her Highness broke their outer defenses, yes, but Payapasa is a wounded beast. If we push deeper into their heartland, they will burn their own crops, poison their own wells, and drag us into a wall of attrition that will bankrupt Hmagol before the winter harvest!"
Yisü stood perfectly still. His hand rested heavily on his sword hilt, his gaze locked directly onto Baatsaikhan, bypassing the protesting ministers entirely.
"Your Majesty, a beast is most dangerous when it is allowed to heal," Yisü said. His voice was low, cutting through the echoes of the hall like a polished blade. "We hold the momentum. If we halt now, every single drop of Magoli blood spilled on that border was wasted. Minister Tarkhan may be correct about the kingdom's treasury, but General Chinua and her soldiers are not asking for rewards of gold or silk. We are only asking for rice and salt. We, the sons and daughters of Hmagol, lay down our lives for one thing: to protect the peaceful sleep of our parents and the untroubled smiles of our children."
He shifted his gaze to Tarkhan, giving him a freezing glare, before sweeping his eyes across the entire hall of finely dressed aristocrats.
"Have any of you ever asked yourselves where the very silk you wear comes from? How it is that you are able to sleep safely at night, waking up to the laughter of your children and grandchildren? Everything you possess was traded for the sweat and blood of sons and daughters whose names you will never even know." Yisü paused, feeling his emotions rising, realizing he was close to losing his military guard. He turned back to the throne, lowering his head. "I apologize, Your Majesty. I—"
"I understand you, Captain," Baatsaikhan interrupted softly. "To know what lies on the road ahead, one can only ask those who have walked it and returned. Therefore, I understand you completely."
"Your Majesty," Minister Enkhjin spoke up, rising hastily from his cushion. "Another option exists. Since General Chinua has already secured Kark City, what if we offer a peace treaty? A treaty would be beneficial to both sides. In the past, we held a peace treaty with them. Though they broke the old agreements, we could offer new terms to save lives. General Chinua could halt the invasion and simply establish our new permanent border right there."
A murmur of desperate, eager agreement rippled through the ministers. They looked up at Baatsaikhan, silently begging the King to rein in his vanguard commander.
Baatsaikhan remained silent for a long, agonizing moment, the immense weight of his kingdom pressing visibly into the weathered lines of his face.
"Esen," Baatsaikhan finally spoke, addressing the most respected minister of his council. "You are in charge of transporting the provisions to Kark City. After you return from the front lines, we will make our final decision on whether to continue the invasion. But as of now, the decree stands. We will not halt."
Esen stood up and bowed deeply to the King.
"The final matter in this letter regards the status of Kark City," Baatsaikhan continued, his voice dropping an octave. "General Chinua demands that the city be stripped of its old name. From this day forward, she wishes it to be mapped and known as Behrouz City."
A sudden, sharp silence fell over the hall, followed instantly by an explosion of outraged, furious murmurs from the ministers.
"Absurd!" Minister Temür spat, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his robes as he leaned forward aggressively from his cushion. "Behrouz? General Chinua wishes to name a vital strategic gateway after a common bandit of the steppes?"
Yisü snapped his head up, his eyes flashing with righteous anger. "Old Chief Behrouz held the border canyon for three agonizing days against an entire enemy vanguard, Minister! He and his men stood like an absolute wall of iron until the General arrived, preventing our entire border from being breached. He sacrificed his life, his family, his home, and his men so that Hmagol would not be invaded from the flank! He bled for this kingdom—and not just him. Innocent civilians, women, and children all bled for Hmagol in the only way they knew how!"
"He was a bandit!" another elder shouted, slamming a fist onto his knee in protest. "The man spent forty years raiding our northeastern trade routes and stealing our horses! A common thief does not get his name carved into the stone of a conquered city, especially a city that was bought with the blood of Hmagol's sons! It is an insult to our ancestors!"
"He stole nothing from the Magoli people!" Yisü countered fiercely, his voice ringing powerfully off the lattice walls of the palace. He knew this was the most sacred task Chinua had entrusted to him, and he would fight to his last breath to see it done. "He was only deemed a bandit because this very court forgot him and his tribe first! And yet, despite that, he died a true warrior of Hmagol!"
"Silence."
The King murmured the word. It wasn't loud, but the entire hall went instantly freezing cold. The ministers instantly choked back their protests, settling back onto their cushions, though their eyes remained furious.
Baatsaikhan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down at Yisü and the rest of the room. His face remained unreadable, a mask of weathered stone caught between the frantic political demands of his court and the undeniable, bloody reality of the war being fought in his name.
"We asked for Behrouz to die," Baatsaikhan said quietly, the truth heavy in his chest. "Therefore, from this day onward, Behrouz City will be written into the map of Hmagol."
As the ministers sat in stunned, defeated silence, the memory flashed vividly in the King's mind. He remembered the day he, Chinua, and Hye had gone to visit the old chief before parting for Ntsua-Ntu. He could still see Behrouz drinking his bowl of mare's milk, a warm smile on his face, and the complete acceptance of fate shining in his old eyes.
"Heh-he-heh," Behrouz had chuckled, wiping his mouth. "I might be old, but I am no coward. I am a Magoli. If my King asks me to die... I could not refuse, right?"
The old man had laughed softly again, his gaze shifting to lock onto Chinua, Hye, and Baatsaikhan with absolute clarity.
"In truth... I am yesterday's dream, and you are the dream of tomorrow. Besides, I want to take my last breath exactly where I took my first.'"