The sound of command drums reverberated through the capital of Thăng Long. The drumming seemed to soar and strike the great bronze bell hanging in the Báo Thiên Pagoda's tower, as if making the bell resonate in harmony. The drums and the bell blended together, resonating slowly, like echoes from another realm where unliberated souls still lingered.
Chiêu Hoàng suddenly felt the wind shift. From behind her, it blew toward the Dragon Courtyard, carrying a faint, metallic scent—like dried blood soaked into the earth, hidden beneath the thick laterite stones of the capital, drifting toward the Thái Hòa Palace.
Then she saw him—the defeated Champa king from the South, known to the people of Đại Việt by the strange name Chế Củ. Only later did she learn his true name: Jaya Paramesvaravarman II, the thirteenth king of the Champa Kingdom. He ruled from around 1220 to 1257 and clashed with Đại Việt many times.
Chế Củ was brought to the Dragon Courtyard before the Thái Hòa Palace later than the others. He did not arrive with the initial group of slaves. Instead, he was escorted alone in a bamboo cage reinforced with iron hoops, placed on a horse-drawn cart. Two rows of Imperial Guards flanked the cart, their unsheathed swords and spears gleaming in the sunlight.
The cart stopped at the steps of the Dragon Courtyard. Two Imperial Guards—one unlocking the cage, the other pulling Chế Củ out—hoisted him by the arms and led him up the steps to the Thái Hòa Palace. Left Commander of the Imperial Guard, one of the two deputy commanders under First Commandant Ngô Tuấn, led the way.
The crowd of Champa slaves and prisoners roared. They raised their arms to the sky, shaking them wildly. The clanging of metal drowned out the shouts and threats of the Imperial Guards keeping watch. Chế Củ shuffled up the steps, his hands and feet bound by heavy iron chains. Each step dragged the chains, producing a clinking sound that seemed to pierce Chiêu Hoàng's mind.
She leaned slightly over the ironwood railing of the pagoda tower. Her gaze fixed on Chế Củ's peculiar figure, as if, among the thousands of slaves below, he alone stood apart from the crowd. He walked as though the very earth supported his steps, despite the chains clanking loudly with each movement.
Never in her life had Chiêu Hoàng seen someone so tall. Just moments before, she had seen Cannon, a lanky Champa slave youth. Now, she beheld a man of extraordinary stature, towering over those around him. His dark skin glistened as if painted with ash from a fire. His hair was matted into tangled curls. He looked wilder, darker than gunpowder itself.
Chiêu Hoàng saw him raise his head and look around. His eyes were not those of a defeated man, nor of one resigned to his fate. They were the eyes of a wounded beast—filled with hatred, defiance, indifference, and anticipation. They were still the eyes of a king, fallen though he was.
He did not bow his head. Unlike the other Champa slaves, he did not look down at the ground. He stared straight at the Thái Hòa Palace, directly at the Đại Việt court. He gazed at the heavens and the earth with a majestic bearing—a general's dignity, despite his defeat.
And he was looking straight at her…
Chiêu Hoàng shuddered. Their eyes met. At that moment, she thought she saw the faintest trace of a smile. She exhaled softly and stepped back half a pace. She wasn't sure if he could truly see her from such a height and distance. But that gaze, that piercing look, struck her heart like an invisible arrow, tightening her chest. Never had she felt so overwhelmed by a captive slave. She saw a court official raise his hand, signaling a halt.
Chế Củ and the two Imperial Guards stopped at the threshold of the Thái Hòa Palace, just nine steps from entering. The Left Commander of the Imperial Guard shoved Chế Củ's back, forcing him to kneel before the court of Emperor Lý Thánh Tông. Chế Củ stumbled and fell to one knee, but it was not a true kneel. It was the stance of a leopard stalking prey, not a gesture of surrender. One Imperial Guard pressed his neck down. Another jabbed the butt of a spear into the back of his knee, forcing his standing leg to buckle, making him fall prostrate.
From the Báo Thiên Pagoda tower, Chiêu Hoàng could still see Chế Củ—though now on both knees—raising his head, looking upward. His entire being radiated defiance. The two Imperial Guards lowered their spears to the ground and stepped forward. They twisted his arms behind his back and pressed his face against the stone steps. The Left Commander of the Imperial Guard took another step forward, clasped his hands in a salute, and began his report.
Chiêu Hoàng couldn't hear his words. The cacophony of shouts below drowned out his voice. The noise was like a waterfall crashing from a hundred-foot height. The people of Thăng Long began to gather in greater numbers—children's laughter and cries, men and women gossiping, Champa slaves shouting, and soldiers issuing threats. The sounds were like undercurrents swirling around the Dragon Courtyard, crashing against the stones and pillars, flooding into her heart.
The human chess game had not yet begun. It will start tomorrow. But the atmosphere of death it created was already thick, heavy as the smell of gunpowder, as the scent of blood. Though no shots had been fired, though no blood had yet spilled, death was already present throughout the capital.
Chiêu Hoàng lowered her head. Her hands gripped the glossy lim wood railing, now hot under the sun at the Báo Thiên Pagoda tower.
"Why must I witness this? Why is everything so violent?"She asked no one."Why, among hundreds, does only one person hold my gaze?"
She sighed quietly. She didn't know how to answer. Suddenly, she saw her father, the Emperor, give a slight wave. The two Imperial Guards released Chế Củ. They bent to retrieve their spears, stepped back, and stood still, holding their weapons upright, exactly one spear's length from Chế Củ. The Left Commander of the Imperial Guard touched the hilt of his sword and stepped aside. All three stood motionless, like wooden statues.
Chiêu Hoàng saw her father descend the steps toward Chế Củ. The clamor fell silent. The air became startlingly still. Even the great bronze bell beside her no longer wailed as it had moments before.
In those days, there was no unit of time shorter than a "khắc." A day had a hundred khắc. Chiêu Hoàng didn't know how long that moment lasted—perhaps a tenth of a khắc. She only knew everything was happening quickly. She couldn't believe her eyes as she watched the scene below. She moved as if to step forward to stop her father. If not for the lim wood railing of the Báo Thiên Pagoda tower, she might have rushed to save him from the barbaric prisoner.
Below, a hundred civil and military officials—led by Trần Thủ Độ and Lý Đạo Thành—surged forward. All of them sought to block Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's path.
Without turning his head, the Emperor waved again. The officials froze, not daring to breathe. He bent down. His hands reached out and lifted Chế Củ to his feet. Emperor Lý Thánh Tông was raising his sworn enemy to stand…
A shrill voice broke through, shattering her tangled thoughts.
"Princess Chiêu Hoàng."
She turned. The Imperial Commandant Ngô Tuấn stood bowing, his voice high-pitched with restraint.
"His Majesty summons the Princess to the Thái Hòa Palace immediately." Ngô Tuấn continued, his voice still shrill, like that of a eunuch.
He, too, was looking down at the Thái Hòa Palace. In his eyes, there was a terror she had never seen, as he witnessed the same scene below as she did.
He did not look at her. If he had, her eyes would surely have mirrored his.