The imperial halls of the Eastern Palace had always seemed so suffocating.
Gilded dragons coiled around every pillar, silent sentinels of an ancient, ever-watchful order. Silk banners hung like floating ghosts, whispering with each passing step.
But grandeur had never awed Hiral.
Not when every gilded inch of this palace was merely lacquer over rot.
As he strode through the grand corridor, flanked by guards clad in black and crimson, it wasn't the opulence that tightened his chest.
It was the summoning.
Empress Shana rarely delayed when her temper brewed—and today, the storm had been brewing since dawn.
He entered the throne room in silence.
Atop her lotus-carved dais, Empress Shana reclined like a poised blade sheathed in silk.
Her indigo robes fanned across the cushions in stately waves, embroidered phoenixes dancing in threads of gold and garnet. The phoenix crown shimmered in the high window's sunlight like the sun itself bowed to her will.
Peony incense curled through the air, thick and sweet—almost cloying.
Her gaze found Hiral instantly.
Polished steel. Cold. Direct.
"You let him go," she said.
No greeting. No decorum.
Just venom wrapped in velvet.
Hiral bowed low, unflinching. "It's part of a grander scheme, Your Majesty."
She rose with chilling grace, descending from her dais like a tide of frost.
"You were told to bring the man back—or break him. And yet here you are, empty-handed."
Behind her, ministers stood in their semicircle of shadows and silks. Some exchanged uneasy glances, caught between loyalty and caution. Others bore thin-lipped smirks—wolves scenting weakness.
The court was always at its most animated when blood might be drawn with words.
And today, Hiral was the bleeding figure at center stage.
His expression didn't shift. "He returns not to glory but to a kingdom unraveling. Ro's court is fractured. The monarch's grip is weakened. The people grow restless."
"And?" Shana's voice dripped like ice into boiling oil.
"He returns not as a savior," Hiral continued coolly, "but as a shadow of what they need. His presence alone will sow doubt. Suspicion. Discontent. We planted the seeds of their undoing—without drawing a single sword."
A pause.
The room held its breath.
Then came her smile.
Sharp. Serpentine. Approval disguised as amusement.
"So… your inaction was poison in disguise."
"I would never be so bold as to say so, Your Majesty," Hiral replied with a measured dip of his head.
She circled slowly, the train of her robe hissing softly over polished jade tiles. "The King of the West gloats over a throne grown soft. He basks in his general's return like it is a triumph, not a ticking fuse. But it is not enough, Hiral. I want more."
Hiral tensed. Barely. "More, Your Majesty?"
"Glory. Conquest. Proof that the Eastern Empire remains unchallenged." Her tone darkened with each word. "I want the western borders dissolved into dust. The salt mines. The rivers. The mountain passes. I want their breath stolen by fear before their warriors ever march. And you—will lead the charge."
This was the trap.
The brilliance of Empress Shana's control was never in open tyranny. It was in how she carved roles into cages and offered the illusion of duty.
She sharpened men like blades—but refused to let them wield themselves.
Hiral bowed slightly, the edge of protest beneath his calm. "With respect, Your Majesty, the newly annexed provinces remain unsettled. Their nobles bow, yes, but the people still burn with unrest. If we push now—"
"Then let the ministers smother the flames," she snapped, eyes gleaming. "That is their purpose. Yours is not to govern. Yours is to conquer. You are my sword, Hiral. I did not hone you for ceremony."
From behind, he felt the weight of watching eyes—some waiting for him to defy her, others silently praying he would obey. The court was divided.
Some feared Hiral's growing presence among the people, especially the commoners who whispered his name not with fear, but with hope. To the Empress, that was unacceptable.
Influence outside her control was a kind of treason.
And some ministers, cautious yet perceptive, supported him—not out of idealism, but pragmatism. They saw in Hiral not a rival to Shana, but a counterbalance.
Someone who cared for the empire more deeply than the throne that ruled it.
Which made him dangerous.
Too dangerous.
And now, she meant to send him far from the capital, far from the people who admired him. She would cloak it in glory, but it was exile in armor.
He lowered his head fully.
"As Your Majesty commands."
His voice was calm. Dutiful.
But inside, a quiet revolt stirred.
Shana passed close, the hem of her robes brushing the floor like the tide swallowing footsteps.
As she swept past him, she trailed one hand over the edge of her throne—then paused beside him, close enough for her perfume of myrrh and power to chill the air.
"I want your campaign map within the week," she said softly, each word a seal.
"Yes, Empress."
With a final flick of her sleeve, she turned away.
The audience was over.
The doors opened. The guards stepped forward.
And Hiral, once again, played the obedient blade.
But as he stepped out of the hall, the incense clinging to his lungs like ash, his thoughts strayed—not to war, nor to conquest.
They strayed to the sea.
To moonlight on a quiet deck. To laughter not forced. To a necklace he had made with his own hands and entrusted without words.
Hiral sighed in his mind.
****
The heavy doors to the palace's west wing opened with a muted groan as Hiral stepped through, the golden light of afternoon spilling through the tall lattice windows that lined the corridor.
The echo of booted footsteps followed in his wake—loyal men, trained shadows who had stood by him through campaigns and councils alike.
He paused before the carved doors of his personal office.
"You've done well," he said without turning. His voice was low, weary. "But your duties end here for today. Go. Rest."
There was a brief hesitation—then murmured affirmations and salutes as the guards bowed and dispersed, their footsteps fading like echoes of an old song.
Hiral pushed open the doors.
The scent of old parchment, wax, and faint sandalwood greeted him—home, in the quietest sense. The office was less ornate than expected of someone in his station: no gold, no grand tapestries, only clean lines and efficient space.
Scrolls were sorted into color-coded stacks, campaign maps pinned meticulously to the walls, and two desks—one large and formidable near the windows, and another slightly cluttered one near the hearth.
At the latter sat Tirin.
Sharp-eyed, ink-stained, and utterly buried in paperwork.
A half-eaten rice bun sat forgotten on the edge of a ledger.
Reports from outposts, petitions from soldiers' families, civilian complaints scrawled in varying degrees of desperation—Tirin was sorting them all, sleeves rolled up, fingers flying, brow furrowed with stubborn focus.
He didn't look up as Hiral entered.
"I figured you'd come back sighing," Tirin muttered without pause, "but I didn't expect it to be this early. That means real trouble."
Hiral exhaled softly—this time, with a flicker of a smile. "Am I that predictable?"
"When your sighs sound like an impending storm, yes."
The general chuckled and moved toward the tall shelf in the corner, pouring himself tea before settling near Tirin's desk.
Tirin finally glanced up from a stack of urgent correspondence. "How bad?"
Hiral studied the tea swirling in his cup, the steam briefly obscuring his gaze. "Every time I return from being summoned by the Empress… there's always something brewing. No matter how many measures I set in place, no matter how many nets I weave… it's never enough."
Tirin snorted. "She's lucky you're still loyal."
He leaned back, stretching his aching spine. "No one else shoulders half the burdens you do—coordinating military reforms, managing both annexed and ignored provinces, and cleaning up after a council too busy playing politics to listen to the people bleeding under their feet. And somehow you still gain the trust of the commoners without parading titles or gold." His eyes flicked to Hiral's collar. "Or crowns."
Hiral gave him a long look—grateful, amused, and tired. Then he patted Tirin's shoulder firmly. "I'm glad I have competent men to trust with important work."
Tirin gave a long, suffering sigh. "Competent, sure. But not enough. Not for this court. Not for a country that's half-rotting from the inside."
He pushed aside a parchment stamped with a broken seal. "We've had three different merchant guilds report missing grain convoys, and none of them match the routes cleared by the imperial registry. You tell me how many bribes it takes to make three different departments not notice an entire supply chain vanish."
Hiral's jaw tightened slightly, but his expression remained calm. "Too many."
Tirin dropped the quill and leaned forward, folding his arms over the desk. "So? What's she planning this time?"
"She wants a new campaign. Across the western border. The annexed provinces aren't enough for her." He paused. "She wants the rivers. The salt. Everything."
Tirin cursed under his breath. "She's not satisfied until the entire continent bleeds for her banners."
A beat of silence passed between them, heavy with shared frustration.
"But if my plan works…" Hiral said finally, leaning forward just enough for his voice to lower. "We may buy ourselves time. Not peace—but breathing room. A chance to plant seeds deeper than she can uproot."
Tirin looked at him, searching. "Will the fruits of your labor show any signs soon?"
"Not yet," Hiral admitted. "But I guarantee that it would. And when it does…" He allowed himself the smallest smile, something tempered by battle and old hopes. "We'll have time. For once."
Tirin exhaled, long and slow. "Gods help us if you're wrong."
"I believe men would be better helpers than gods when it does go south."
The two men exchanged a glance—seasoned, unsentimental, but grounded in a trust few in the empire could claim.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the maps and the ledgers, as if tracing the borders of battles not yet fought.