The medic tent stank of iron and smoke, sweat and fear.
Alexis stood rooted just inside, every muscle taut, watching as the medics bent over Hiral's body with quick, precise hands.
Bandages soaked crimson faster than they could be changed.
The sharp clatter of tools, the murmurs of orders, the muted groans of men outside—all blurred into a dull roar in Alexis's ears.
The head medic's brow was slick with sweat as he finally leaned back, his voice steady but grim.
"A hair's breadth. The blade missed a vital artery by chance—or intent. He'll live if the fever doesn't claim him. But it will be a long recovery."
Alexis's chest hitched. For a moment, relief threatened to unmake him. But then the words dug deeper: by chance—or intent.
He barked a laugh, sharp and dry, startling the younger medics. It wasn't joy.
It was bitter, hollow.
His hand went to his mouth as he turned slightly aside, shoulders shaking—not from humor, but from the weight pressing in.
He calculated it. He chose it. I'm sure of it.
The realization gnawed at him.
Hiral had known.
He must have read Alexis's intent, felt the recklessness in his swing.
So Hiral, ever the cold calculative general that he is, used the chance.
He had stepped into it deliberately, just so Alexis would bear the cut, the guilt, the ruin.
For what?! To hurt him. For some grand plan...perhaps?
He had carved this outcome from Alexis's own heart. Alexis grated his teeth.
Did you know how it would tear me apart, Hiral? Did you know how I would break watching you fall?
Anger surged—sharp, wild, almost enough to choke him. He clenched his fists until his nails bit his palms, fighting not to shake apart.
Part of him wanted to storm forward, to shout at the unconscious man on the cot, to demand why.
But another part—quieter, weaker—begged for nothing more than to see Hiral's chest rise and fall, to see him wake and live.
Damn it Hiral! You better live! No, I will make sure you will.
His mask as a commander, a king-in-waiting, pressed hard against the storm inside.
At last, the head medic gave him a small, weary nod. "For now, he's stable."
Alexis forced himself to move, each step stiff as if he were walking through mud. He pushed through the tent flap and out into the cool dawn air.
The camp was waiting. Lines of weary soldiers—bloodied, bandaged, limping—stood at attention when they saw him, their eyes searching for their leader's command.
For a moment, Alexis felt the weight of their hope like stones crushing his shoulder.
He straightened, the perfect image of calm resolve, even as his insides quaked.
"Prepare to march," he said, his voice carrying steady through the clearing. "We've won. The enemy's great general is ours. It's time to go home."
A ripple moved through the men—relief, pride, exhaustion easing from their shoulders as if a collective burden had been set down.
They had endured, and now the end was in sight.
But Alexis didn't let them linger in their relief. "Prioritize the wounded and the sick. Make sure they are moved first, with care. No one gets left behind."
The men bowed their heads, murmuring assent, already setting to motion.
Only then did Alexis lift his gaze to the sky. The horizon was streaked with pale rose and gold, the first timid fingers of the sun stretching over the blood-soaked fields.
He realized, with a dull start, that he had been in the tent all through the night.
The sight of dawn—gentle, beautiful, unknowing—stabbed at him. Victory tasted like ash.
Closing his eyes, he exhaled a long, weary sigh. Let the return be smooth. Just once, let it be smooth.
But even as he wished it, some part of him knew—smooth roads were not meant for men like him.
****
Seran's voice carried over the din of retreat, clear and resolute.
"Break into squads! Small groups only—scatter wide and keep low. Get the wounded out first, then the young. You all know your duty. Do it clean, do it fast."
The Eastern soldiers did not hesitate. Their armor clinked faintly in the dim light as they dispersed into disciplined fragments, slipping into the wilderness with uncanny efficiency.
For outsiders, it might have looked like a rout, but within the ranks, there was no panic—only trust.
They had followed their general into countless storms, obeying orders that often seemed reckless, even impossible.
Yet time and again, Hiral's foresight had delivered them from ruin.
Now, with his body struck down and carried away by the enemy, that trust burned all the brighter.
If General Hiral said retreat, then retreat was all they needed to know for their general proved himself more than enough.
The air was heavy with grief, but Seran saw it in their eyes: no wavering, no despair.
They carried their belief in Hiral as if it were a shield strapped to their very souls. And so, though their hearts bled, they obeyed.
Far away, in the jewel halls of the Eastern capital, Empress Shana's shrieks tore through the air like knives.
"Cowards! All of them! Cowards and worms!"
She flung a porcelain cup across the chamber, shattering it against the marble pillar.
A maid shrieked and dropped to her knees, trembling.
Shana's hand shot out, striking the girl across the cheek before anyone could intervene.
"My great general falls, and they run! Hiding in villages, skulking in filth with peasants like beggars! Do they not know what humiliation they bring upon me?!"
Her curses spilled out unchecked, laced with venom. One servant tried to soothe her, only to earn a clawing strike across the arm that left bloody welts.
Rage consumed her until her once-elegant face twisted, no longer the visage of a ruler, but a fury desperate for control.
Yet the throne room beyond her private chambers told another story.
The ministers, long grown fat on corruption, now found their steps weighed down by invisible chains.
Tirin was everywhere—watching, listening, striking when needed.
With Empress Shana to preoccupied with her anger, Tirin used the chance to seize the power within the court.
Tirin managed to gain the hold of the court by simply giving orders to the key figures that Hiral planted long ago in strategic positions.
So now the plan finally was gaining great momentum.
For when a merchant who tried to divert grain supplies for his own profit found his assets seized overnight, his guards disbanded, his name dragged before the people.
A minister who sought to delay tax relief for the villages received an unmarked scroll on his desk—a scroll filled with precise accounts of his embezzlement.
The very next day, he submitted the decree willingly, his hands shaking as he signed.
Tirin played his role with ruthless precision, each move echoing the invisible hand of Hiral's schemes.
A word, a glance, the quiet turning of a ledger page was enough to remind the court that the ground beneath their feet belonged not to them, but to a man who had already carved their fate.
And when ministers strayed even a finger's breadth from expectation, Tirin's presence loomed—a shadow that made them quickly correct themselves, lest the full weight of exposure and ruin crush them completely.
Back in the palace, Shana still raged without end, but the court was no longer hers to command.
Her fury had no end, no target she could strike that would change the course already set in motion.
And so her wrath fell only on servants too powerless to resist, while outside her gilded cage, Hiral's web tightened.