Negotiation

The eastern camp shimmered under the waning light of dusk, nestled between rock outcroppings and the yawning mouth of the Barren Lands. Fires crackled softly throughout the encampment, casting warm glows on relaxed faces. 

The weary soldiers—having crossed unmarked terrain, battled thirst and fatigue—now finally rested, laughter and murmured songs floating like healing winds through the tents.

General Hiral moved among them with quiet presence, noting full bellies, freshly wrapped wounds, and the loosened tension in many shoulders. 

He gave nods to a few young recruits, checked in with a veteran medic, and made sure the sentries were posted with rotating shifts.

Once assured the men were truly resting, Hiral summoned his commanders to the largest planning tent.

Inside, a rough map of the region lay stretched across the war table, ink marks and bone-carved markers indicating known positions, supply caches, and enemy activity.

"Our current location is a defensible ridge. We'll begin building a secondary barrier of sharpened stakes here," Hiral said, pointing to the map. "I want trenches dug and our camp perimeter redrawn by tomorrow night."

The commanders listened attentively.

"We send Unit Hawkshadow to sweep the northern ridge. I want full surveillance on that stretch before we consider moving further. If there are Western soldiers nearby, find out how many, what their formation is, and more importantly—" Hiral paused, his tone sharp, "—whether they are hostile or open to parley."

His second-in-command, Captain Seran, raised a brow. "You want to negotiate?"

"If there's even the smallest chance to avoid bloodshed, I'll take it," Hiral replied, his voice steady but fierce. "But we'll prepare for the worst. Tell the men: these next few days will not be easy. Rest while you can."

With a synchronized bow, the commanders saluted and left to carry out their orders.

Seran, however, remained behind and handed Hiral a stack of papers—ink-stained, smudged with the weight of war.

"Logistics reports. Ration levels are holding steady, thanks to yesterday's rest. Morale's up too—several of the younger troops were smiling, sir. Smiling," Seran said with mock dramatics and a small grin.

Hiral accepted the reports, chuckling softly. "A miracle."

"I'll be around if you need anything."

"You should rest, Seran. You look like you haven't blinked in two days."

"I'll rest when you do."

Hiral gave him a knowing look and waved him off. "Go."

Once alone, he lit a small lantern and spent the next two hours poring over reports—supply logs, medical assessments, tactical suggestions. He made careful annotations, approved several requests, and denied others with notes of future reassessment. 

It was only when his eyes began to blur that he allowed himself four hours of sleep.

****

Dawn.

The sun rose pale and golden, barely lifting the chill from the morning air.

Hiral stood in the courtyard ring, sword in hand, sweat gleaming on his brow as he moved through a series of flowing forms—training alongside his soldiers, not above them. 

He parried with younger officers, correcting stances and offering silent nods of approval.

As breakfast was served—flatbread, dried fish, and watered tea—a scout sprinted into the circle, breathless.

"General!" the scout saluted. "I bring news. A Western force has stationed itself on the southern edge of the Barren. Their general... has sent word. He is open to negotiation."

Hiral's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "The general. Name?"

The scout shook his head. "Didn't give it. Just that he wishes to speak before any blood is spilled."

Hiral folded his arms. The wind shifted slightly—bringing with it the scent of scorched sand and memory.

"Seran," he called.

Within moments, his second-in-command arrived.

"I'll go to meet them," Hiral said. "But not as their equal. Not yet. If I reveal myself as the general, it might tip the balance too soon."

Seran nodded. "You want to go disguised as a second. Clever."

"Keep the camp on alert but steady. No movements unless you hear from me. I'll leave with an elite detachment. No more than five."

"And if the negotiations fail?"

"Then I'll return with what I've learned—and we'll prepare for war."

Seran's face darkened. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Hiral gripped his shoulder briefly. "Hold the fort. I'll ride by dusk."

As the sun climbed higher, Hiral changed into plainer leathers, stripped of insignia but still carried himself with the quiet precision of command. His elite guard gathered, silent and ready.

He mounted his horse, eyes lingering on the horizon—toward the south, toward the man he had met by firelight and wind, toward the general whose sincerity he still couldn't fully believe, but also couldn't entirely doubt.

He kicked his horse forward, leading the small troop toward the edge of fate, where swords and words waited to clash.

****

The dull gold of late morning poured over the scorched horizon, softening the jagged silhouettes of the temporary Western negotiation camp. 

Wind rustled the triangular banners that bore the emblem of the Kingdom of Ro—a silver lion clawing skyward—while wary soldiers patrolled the perimeter, eyes sharp.

On the rise just beyond the boundary, General Hiral raised a hand, signaling his elite escort to halt.

A lone scout—the same one who'd delivered the message—rode ahead toward the camp's edge, where he was greeted by a Western officer. 

After a brief exchange, the scout pointed back toward Hiral's group and the officer nodded sharply before retreating into the camp.

Moments later, the central command tent's flaps parted, and a familiar figure stepped out.

Clad in gold steel plate lined with blue, helm gleaming beneath the sun, General Alexis walked with relaxed authority—though his gaze was sharp, cutting across the distance until it met Hiral's.

Hiral narrowed his eyes slightly.

Around Alexis, Western soldiers lowered their weapons at a signal from their general—halberds eased down, bows unstrung. Hiral, seeing the display, turned and gave his own sharp nod.

His men dismounted and stood at ease—but alert.

As Hiral approached the tent, Alexis didn't look away. In fact, his gaze seemed to burn brighter, and Hiral felt the weight of it—but did not flinch.

He stepped into the camp with practiced composure, his face half-covered by a light scarf, and bowed ever so slightly to the soldiers flanking the entrance.

"Peace to your fire," he greeted formally, using the Western field salutation.

Several soldiers blinked at his fluency. Alexis, for his part, chuckled—and pulled off his helmet in a smooth, almost dramatic motion.

There was no mistaking that grin.

"Well, well," Alexis said, stepping forward and offering a hand. "If it isn't the mysterious wanderer with a knack for diplomacy and a killer poker face."

Hiral didn't twitch. He took the hand briefly, shook it, and replied coolly, "You must be mistaken."

Alexis let out a baffled laugh, one hand on his hip. "Seriously? We shared sand, survival rations, and a brief moment of mutual understanding."

Hiral inclined his head. "I've met many travelers in these lands. Forgive me if I don't recall each of them."

"Harsh," Alexis muttered, but the smirk didn't leave. "I'd be more offended if I didn't know you were bluffing. You've got the same gait. Same shoulders. Same 'I'm judging your soul quietly' eyes."

Hiral's mouth curled into a sharp smile, the only confirmation Alexis was getting.

So he recognizes movement patterns and body proportions. Dangerous—but useful knowledge, Hiral thought. And he gave it away freely. Interesting.

"Shall we speak inside?" Hiral said.

"By all means." Alexis gestured gallantly. "This way, mysterious not-Hiral traveler."

Inside the tent, the noise of the camp faded behind thick canvas and soft tapestries. A modest war table sat at the center, with chairs on either side. No guards. No aides. Just the two of them.

They sat.

Alexis leaned back, relaxed, elbows draped across the armrests like a noble without a care in the world.

"So," he said. "Are you always this stoic, or just with people who saw you get kicked out of a tribal tent?"

Hiral gave him a flat look. "You seem very certain we've met."

Alexis shrugged, grinning. "You think I'd forget the one person who looked at me like I wasn't a total idiot out there? Mask or no mask, I remember people. Especially ones who saved an entire tribe."

Hiral didn't answer immediately. He studied Alexis—the easy confidence, the subtle tension beneath it. A soldier masking weariness with charm.

He softened his tone slightly. "That's a useful talent. Remembering people like that."

Alexis nodded, then added in a quieter voice, "Not always a gift."

Seizing the moment, Hiral shifted the conversation. "We're here for more than nostalgia. Let's speak of our goals. You want this land?"

Alexis's smile faded a little. "Our king wants it. For glory. To add another name to his conquests. But truth? He has no real use for it. There's no intention to build anything here."

Hiral's brows drew together. "So it's just a title grab."

"Pretty much."

Hiral exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers together in thought. "Then your side doesn't intend to hold the land?"

"Not unless we have to. The King wants a banner planted and a speech written. After that? Doesn't care."

Hiral's eyes darkened. "She's the same. The Empress. Every battle is a step to outdo him. She doesn't see the people who suffer between their shadows."

Alexis looked at him, something quiet flickering behind his gaze.

"If rulers could talk like this," he said, "maybe we wouldn't be sitting on opposite sides."

Hiral didn't reply.

Alexis chuckled softly. "Funny, isn't it? Talking to someone who actually gets it. For a moment, I forget you're my enemy."

"That's dangerous," Hiral murmured.

"Yeah," Alexis replied, voice almost wistful. "But nice. For a moment."

Their eyes met across the table—both aware that in another life, on another soil, they might have fought side by side. Shared stories instead of battlefields. Laughed without tension.

But this was war.

And fate had its rules.

Just as the light within the tent softened into a tense, mutual understanding, the heavy flap burst open.

Two messengers—one in Eastern red and black, the other in Western blue and gold—stood panting, dust thick on their cloaks, eyes wide with urgency.

"Urgent orders from the capital!" the Eastern messenger barked, saluting stiffly. "From Her Radiance, the Empress of the Eastern Empire."

The Western rider stepped forward with a cold gleam in his eyes. "And from His Majesty, King Rhion of Ro."

Hiral and Alexis both turned, the calm between them shattered.

"The Empress commands that the eastern army is to capture enemy soldiers for display," the Eastern messenger recited, "as a symbol of the Empire's might. She wants glory slaves before the sun sets on this campaign."

"King Rhion says," the Western messenger spat with practiced contempt, "he wants no negotiations. A bloody, hard-fought victory is required to bring him prestige in court. He wants your forces to outmatch the East. Humiliate them."

A heavy silence fell like a guillotine in the tent.

Then Alexis chuckled bitterly, running a hand through his disheveled blond hair. "So much for diplomacy."

Hiral's jaw clenched, but his face showed no surprise. "I suspected this. Someone must have leaked the truth—that both armies are already in position. The rulers see only a grand opportunity."

Alexis exhaled. "I was going to report that the Empire's army saw our numbers and wisely withdrew. No bloodshed. A quiet gain. But now..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Hiral's thoughts ran swift and measured. He had already planned for this contingency. If the Empress wanted prisoners of war to show off, then she would get them—just not in the way she imagined. He would purchase slaves from neighboring exiled Western noble lines allied with the Empire. Dress them as captured soldiers. Parade them before the court.

The Empress wouldn't know the difference. The court ministers were too busy scheming to scrutinize.

Alexis rubbed his temple and then looked at Hiral—his eyes half-resigned, half-curious.

"I take it your side won't agree to back down."

Hiral tilted his head thoughtfully. "No. But I have a suggestion."

Alexis raised a brow. "I'm listening."

Hiral leaned in slightly. "Let's stage a duel. One-on-one. Between generals. A grand clash. Make it look real—bloody, desperate, legendary. Let the armies see what they want. Let the rulers see a victory."

Alexis frowned. "And then?"

"Then," Hiral continued, "we agree to negotiate privately after the duel. One victor will be declared. But the 'terms' will be fabricated to suit both of our rulers' egos. A compromise wrapped in a triumph."

Alexis regarded him quietly. "Would your side even agree to something like that?"

Hiral gave a smooth shrug. "I can convince our general. And the men will fall in line."

That answer made Alexis narrow his eyes.

"You keep saying your general, but tell me something, not-Hiral…" He leaned forward, one hand on the table. "What are the odds that your name just happens to be Hiral, the same as the Empire's most feared general?"

Hiral blinked once and gave a dry, amused laugh. "Hiral's a common name where I'm from. Half the boys in our province are either Hiral or Jiral."

Alexis grinned. "Right. So that man I met at the tribe who said goodbye without warning, and this mysterious second-in-command just happened to walk the same, sound the same, and fight to protect civilians the same?"

Hiral's smile sharpened like the edge of a blade. "You must have a very good memory."

"I do. And you're very sly."

"Careful," Hiral said lightly, "flattery is dangerous."

Alexis laughed. "I like dangerous. As long as it doesn't get me killed."

Their eyes held for a beat longer than necessary.

"Very well," Alexis said at last, leaning back. "Let's do it. We stage the duel. The rest… we'll write history ourselves."

****

The next hour was spent refining the plan—the terms of the duel, the structure of the 'victory', the pace of the retreat or advance depending on who won. Both generals agreed the duel would be fierce, public, and full of enough spectacle to distract their watching soldiers and their rulers.

Hiral had already decided. 

Seran would fight in his place—one of his best knights, a loyal and deadly warrior, more than capable of acting the part of the great General Hiral. The real Hiral would remain an ace hidden beneath the sand.

As the sun lowered toward the west, casting gold streaks across the tent, Hiral and Alexis prepared to part.

Before they left, both exchanged small gifts: Alexis presented Hiral with a pouch of Roan fire-plums, a rare sweet grown in high cliffs, and a pendant from his family crest. 

Hiral gave a wrapped packet of sunroot tea—a traditional eastern restorative—and a carved ivory token from the Skyfire tribe.

They shook hands again.

"Until the duel," Alexis said, stepping back with his usual crooked smile. "Try not to miss me too much."

Hiral mounted his horse. He paused only once—gaze lingering on Alexis a moment longer than necessary, unreadable.

Then he turned.

And without a word, rode off into the settling dust, wind sweeping his scarf behind him like a banner of dusk.

Alexis watched him go, lips quirking. "What a man," he muttered. "If only we weren't enemies."

And somewhere, deep in his chest, a quiet seed of hope planted itself—

Maybe this won't be the last time they meet.