The sea winds had softened with the arrival of the harvest season, carrying the scent of salt and smoked herbs over the scattered, stone-set villages of the island.
Birds flew overhead, unaware of the quiet shift in power below.
Alexis stood at the edge of a modest garden terrace, wearing rough linen and appearing every bit the humbled captive.
Yet in his sharp gaze and calculated posture, one could see the coils of strategy wrapping tighter with each passing day.
He had been observing.
And now he knew.
He knew the island's structure.
The elders who governed with tradition, the logistics heads who managed food and resource distribution, the militia captains who kept order, and the young scribes who whispered policy under the guise of poetry.
In three patient months, Alexis had mapped them all.
He didn't challenge the high priest's authority.
No.
He slid beneath it—making himself useful, never threatening, always helpful.
He offered small advice, which solved big problems. He fixed broken irrigation lines. He improved pulley systems for their stone wells. He built insulated clay stoves that used half the wood.
It started small. Always small.
And with every success, he gained trust—first from the artisans, then the militia, and finally from some of the logistics runners, who quietly began to depend on his designs to manage food supply more efficiently.
He quietly forged loyalty.
When granted a modest request to lead a work group focused on community improvements, Alexis selected his team with precision.
The sick, the overlooked, the "troublesome but talented"—those who had little to lose and everything to gain.
And he helped their families—genuinely helped them.
One by one, he ensured their children had food, their elderly had medicine, their injured had shelter.
Alexis never made promises; he delivered results. The kind that made people say his name with gratitude behind closed doors.
They weren't soldiers.
But they were his.
Loyal.
Grateful.
Willing.
And now, Alexis was successful in making islanders depend on him indirectly and directly by design.
For the tools Alexis introduced became indispensable.
A wind-powered grain thresher that halved harvest labor.
Modular storage crates sealed to keep out moisture and rats.
Simple distillation coils for purifying water.
Cooperative work calendars posted publicly to organize and balance village workloads.
Everywhere his hand touched, efficiency bloomed. And more importantly—dependence grew.
His inventions, all rooted in Ro technology—now slightly modified—began to shift daily life.
The islanders' lives improved. Fewer died from water-borne illness. Crops lasted longer. Tools worked more efficiently.
The people whispered.
"He may be from Ro, but he is kinder than our own stewards…"
"They say the Kingdom of Ro gives every family a water wheel…"
"Perhaps… perhaps if we were part of Ro, our children wouldn't starve during long winters."
And Alexis knew rumors traveled faster than truth.
He wanted word to leak, carried by coastal traders or curious islanders. He wanted the Kingdom of Ro to hear that devices like theirs were flourishing in a once-hostile land.
It was the signal to the King: Alexis' infiltration is working.
But that was only the first step.
One of his aides, a wiry young man with ink-stained fingers, handed Alexis a scroll. "Word is spreading. Your loom designs are now used in five districts. And we've been invited to the harvest forum."
Alexis nodded slowly, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.
"Good. That means the murmurs are getting louder."
Another aide asked, "Do you think the eastern nation will act?"
Alexis leaned back, hands behind his head.
"Hmm. No. Not yet. It's not something big for the Eastern nation to care about yet."
He stood and walked to a crude map pinned to the bamboo wall. He tapped the marked locations—where his influence had taken root.
"When it gets loud enough—when the whispers become a chorus—he'll return. Hiral won't let this go unchecked forever since it involves Empress Shana's pride. Sooner or later, he will be forced to. I will make it so."
He stared at the center of the map.
"And when he does, I'll be waiting."
A sly smile touched his lips. Not of cruelty, but of strategy.
"But believe me, I don't want to cause trouble, I just want to stir some still waters so he will have no choice but to come to me."
He turned back to his men.
"Prepare for the next phase. We'll soon begin the construction of the village water mills. Make sure the Ro-style banners are seen fluttering during the unveiling."
****
The High Priest observed all this in silent serenity.
From the temple high on the hill, he watched the island shift under Alexis' influence—not through conquest, but conviction.
Others might've panicked.
But the high priest smiled, a knowing thing, neither indulgent nor dismissive.
Let the general stir the waters. Let him play his quiet rebellion with softened edges and sharpened mind.
If it brought prosperity to the people, then why interfere?
He would not betray Alexis' intent of capturing a certain eastern general's attention with his schemes, nor feed the growing murmur.
Instead, he would be the island's still eye in the storm, watching the tide roll inward.
****
Whispers no longer whispered.
They carried in open air, echoed in weaving huts and fishing docks, rang in the chatter at communal feasts and under the shade of banyan trees that had stood for generations.
Five months since Alexis had arrived as a supposed prisoner, the islanders' sentiments had shifted.
Not subtly.
Not quietly.
They spoke his name now with reverence, as one might speak of a saint who bled for their betterment.
Children laughed while playing with the board game 'snake and ladders' they said came from "the wise lands of Ro."
Fishermen now boasted their doubled catches thanks to his nets, and housewives praised the new ovens that spared them from hours of labor.
And in every praise, one sentiment swelled:
"The general has done more for us in five moons than the east has in the past months since the confrontation."
"Is it not right to belong to the land of our benefactor?"
"Did not Ro send a man to help, and the east only to rule?"
****
In the Temple, high atop the ridge overlooking the ocean, the elders convened under a sloped thatch roof. The sea breeze carried their concern as plainly as it carried the incense from the braziers burning beside them.
Their voices were urgent—worried.
"High Priest, this is dangerous."
"They speak of annexation! Of allegiance to Ro!"
"It's treason!"
"General Hiral's gift of autonomy was hard-won. Shall we spit on it?"
"Without him, the western fleet would've turned us to ash."
The High Priest did not raise his voice. He never needed to.
He sat at the circle's head, incense swirling like slow breath around his unmoving form. His gaze swept the assembled elders—wise men and women with shaking hands and shivering hearts.
Then, at length, he spoke:
"You speak of loyalty, but forget the root of loyalty is trust.
And trust... must be watered. Fed. Cared for."
"You ask me to silence a wave that is still rising. That is not wisdom. That is panic."
The elders fell into uneasy silence.
The priest folded his hands before him, gaze distant now, as though seeing through the walls of the temple into the island's heart.
"Let them speak," he said gently.
"Let them dream. Let the wave crest."
"Only then can we decide if we must build a wall—or ride it."
The elders exchanged wary looks, but they knew better than to press him further.
Yet when they left, concern carved deep into their brows, the High Priest remained still—his eyes narrowed just slightly now.
Thoughtful.
He whispered a silent chant to himself.
He did not speak it aloud, but in his heart, he murmured:
"You want his attention, don't you, General?"
"But Hiral will not come yet."
"You'll have to shake the roots deeper than this if you want the east to turn its eyes again."
He inhaled the scent of burning cedar and myrrh.
"I will not play the bridge between you two... yet. But the waters are warming."
He closed his eyes and saw visions: one of two men, locked in silent war, neither raising a blade.
Just waiting.
And the island, ever the quiet chessboard, beginning to tilt.