On the Way Back

The afternoon sun was harsh, beating down on the narrow, winding road as Hiral returned to the main army column, dust clinging to his cloak and hair. 

Seran greeted him with a salute and a grim look that said more than words.

"We've progressed five villages so far," Seran reported. "Two days ahead of schedule. But there's been trouble."

Hiral raised a brow as they walked toward the command caravan. "Bandits?"

"More than we estimated. Desperate folk. Not criminals by nature—just people starving, trying to get by since the capital's aid dried up and the officials... vanished." Seran clenched his jaw. "Some soldiers were injured defending a grain convoy."

Hiral gave a slow nod. "Take me to the captured ones."

They led him past a line of weary soldiers and into a makeshift prison zone—a simple cordoned-off clearing, guarded and shadowed under a cluster of half-dead trees. 

Inside, a group of ragged men and women, most in their twenties, some older, a few with sunburned children at their side. Some glared with mistrust. 

Others looked like they were already expecting the gallows.

Hiral approached the center.

"I'm General Hiral of our Empire," he began evenly. "You've attacked a supply train and risked lives. You should be punished."

A few scoffs. One man spat at the ground.

"But," Hiral continued, "I'm offering you a choice instead. Work. Rebuild the villages we stop in. Help with the harvest. You'll be paid with rice and coin, and allowed to leave once your part is done."

He held up the documents—simple, stamped contracts. "Terms are clear. Your freedom for labor. Your dignity for a future. Nothing more."

That's when one of the older bandits snarled, eyes burning.

"And how are we supposed to trust you? You lot dress in silks, talk sweet, and bleed us dry. What's to stop this from being just another trick? A slave brand in ink?"

He took one step closer—and spat right into Hiral's face.

The soldiers surged forward instantly, hands on hilts, faces dark with fury.

But Hiral didn't flinch. He calmly wiped his cheek with the edge of his sleeve, raised a hand, and stopped his men with a simple motion.

"Do you have someone you trust who can read?" Hiral asked the group, his voice steady and without reproach.

Silence. Then—

"I can read," said a quiet voice.

A boy. Maybe thirteen. Scrawny, with a sharp face and too-large eyes. He stepped forward hesitantly.

Hiral knelt before him, handed the paper. "Read it aloud."

The boy's voice trembled but gained strength as he read word for word—everything Hiral had said, nothing more, nothing less. 

No hidden clauses. 

No indentured servitude. 

Just mutual agreement.

The bandits stirred.

Hiral stood and gave a low, respectful bow to the group. "You have my word. And it is a binding one."

A long pause followed. Then, slowly, grudgingly, most of them nodded. One by one, they stepped forward to sign.

A few still refused, swearing and retreating to the edge of the enclosure. 

But most had seen enough lies to recognize when someone was telling the truth.

As the new workers were escorted to join the rebuilding efforts, Hiral turned to his soldiers, who still looked wary.

"I understand your concerns," he said, addressing them like brothers-in-arms. "You fear betrayal. You fear delay. But these people… they're victims of the same rot we fight every day."

He swept his gaze across them, hard and steady. "We draw our swords to protect the innocent. That includes those we mistake for enemies. If we do not offer a hand now, we are no better than the corruption we curse."

The silence after his words was heavy—and then, slowly, the soldiers nodded. 

Some with pride. 

Some with shame. 

But all with deepening respect.

That night, the army made camp at the edge of a fractured village. Soldiers and former bandits worked side by side, suspicious but driven. Fires burned. Tools clanged. And hope, faint and flickering, began to take root.

Hiral pitched his tent just like the others, despite offers from officers to prepare something more elaborate. 

Inside, by lantern light, he sat alone—scrolls, maps, and ledgers spread across his table.

He stared at two reports:

One, a list of slaves to be quietly purchased under allied identities to present to the Empress as "war trophies."

The other, a preliminary note of the mineral deposits from the barren land—unconfirmed but promising.

Jade. And possibly diamonds. The gods play strange games, he thought, rubbing his temples.

Instead of planning war, he now had to plan covert development, economic reform, and safeguards to keep greedy hands away—his own side's as much as the enemy's.

He dipped his pen in ink and began writing.

Not battle strategies—but blueprints. For roads. Trade systems. Hidden mining routes. Refugee reintegration plans.

Let the rulers play at power, he thought grimly. If I can't stop their hunger, I'll at least feed the ones they forget.

****

The golden hue of the barley fields shimmered under the waning sun as Hiral, sleeves rolled, boots caked in soil, lifted another bundle of stalks onto the cart. 

The heavy scent of earth and sweat clung to him, but his movements remained steady, precise—like a man accustomed not just to war, but to labor rooted in something far more vital: growth.

Around him, soldiers and villagers worked side by side. 

Their laughter rang out amid the rustle of grain. 

The once-wary gazes of the townsfolk had softened over the past few days into nods of respect—trust hard-earned through calloused hands and unwavering presence.

Hiral, with his back drenched and hair damp beneath his loosely tied headscarf, paused only when a graying farmer tugged gently at his arm.

"You don't need to, my lord," the man said, bowing low with worry. "You're our general."

"I'm your servant," Hiral replied softly, adjusting the rope of the cart. "And this barley won't harvest itself."

The elder chuckled, the crinkles in his eyes deeper now but joyful. "Aye, you honor the Empress by working like this."

But Hiral only smiled thinly. If only the Empress saw honor in anything beyond conquest.

That night, under a modest tent that mirrored his men's, Hiral washed briefly, dried with a thin cloth, and changed into a fresh tunic. 

Still, his fingers were stained from the harvest, and the ache in his shoulders didn't fade.

But there was no time for rest.

Lantern in hand, he moved through the village—checking on the rebuilt homes, the gathered wheat stores, and families preparing warm stews. 

Everywhere he passed, people straightened with pride, some bowing, others offering a simple "Thank you, General."

He bowed back. 

He remembered every name, every hardship they mentioned in passing.

He made note of a child's cough.

Of a grandmother missing her heart medicine.

Of a well that needed deeper digging before the dry season came.

When he reached the camp again, he saw a familiar group laughing by the fire—former bandits, now dressed in patched military gear, sipping soup.

One of them noticed him and stood awkwardly. "General, uh… we fixed the broken wagon wheel, like you said. We'll help with repairs at the school next."

"You did well," Hiral said simply. "And your families will receive your pay and grain portions. It's all been documented."

The ex-bandit looked like he wanted to say more—but instead just gave a clumsy salute and sat down again.

****

In the command tent, Seran reported the day's progress.

"We harvested an extra forty sacks today. The villagers say they haven't had this kind of yield in five years."

"Good," Hiral murmured, reviewing supply ledgers and route plans. "And the new converts?"

"Ten more bandits agreed to the labor contracts. I've assigned guards to oversee fairness on both ends. No more incidents since that last stubborn group was turned in."

Hiral nodded. "Any news from the high court?"

Seran handed him a letter.

"It's from the magistrate you helped two weeks ago—he filed your strategy in an official grievance claiming the corrupted high lords have 'stolen the glory of the Empress' with their misallocation of provincial taxes.' The court is… considering it."

Hiral chuckled dryly. "An indirect strike to their pride. Good. As long as they're too busy defending their reputation to interfere with our efforts, we'll continue unhindered."

He closed the ledger and looked out through the tent flap at the stars overhead, the flickering lights from nearby homes glowing in the dark like a constellation of hope.

"We'll be remembered by these people," he said quietly, "not for the wars we fought, but for the peace we gave back."

Seran, tired but proud, saluted. "We march again in three days?"

"Yes," Hiral replied. "But tomorrow, we hold a harvest feast. Let the people celebrate. They've earned it."

As the night deepened and the village settled into sleep, Hiral sat alone once more—penning reports, recalculating routes, drafting proposals for reallocation of grain surplus to the famine-affected mountain regions, and secretly outlining a procurement plan to purchase slaves for the Empress from exiled Western nobles, as per her order.

All while another set of plans burned in his thoughts: the jade canyon, the diamond-veined cliff, and the empire that might crumble if those riches were misused.

But tonight, seeing children laugh with bellies full, and soldiers finally sleep without their weapons at hand, he allowed himself a rare, fleeting moment of peace.

****

The sound of drums, hooves, and half-drunken song filled the night air as General Alexis's army marched proudly toward the borders of the Kingdom of Ro. 

Their banners fluttered like fire, and their boots beat a steady rhythm of conquest.

"Glory to the warbringer!"

"The East trembled before him!"

"Alexis! Alexis!"

The cries echoed across the dry plains, bolstered by campfires, flasks of mead, and the triumphant glow of a swift return. 

They'd made the journey back with remarkable speed, thanks to superior infrastructure, seasoned scouts, and no stops for rebuilding or aiding peasants along the way. 

Just as the kingdom had wanted—efficient and grand.

But at the head of the army, Alexis remained silent. 

Cloaked in his thoughts, he studied the horizon instead of basking in the glory behind him.

At the borders of Ro, with its watchtowers just coming into view, Alexis raised a hand, signaling for the army to halt.

"We'll camp here," he said to his second. "Two days. No further until I say."

"General?" the man blinked. "The capital is less than three days' ride. Shouldn't we—?"

"I'll scout ahead. Alone," Alexis said with a faint smile. "Don't worry. I'll make it back in one piece."

Before the man could question further, Alexis was already riding off.

Half a day's ride later, Alexis entered the sleepy border town of Lowmarch, nestled near the jagged cliffs that marked Ro's edge. 

The place bustled under the lantern glow of early evening—merchants calling out the day's last deals, children weaving through carts, laughter rolling from open tavern doors.

Disguised in worn traveler's leathers, hair tied back and his insignia well hidden, Alexis stepped into the heart of town and into a tavern overflowing with patrons.

The smell of roasted meat, ale, and fatigue greeted him. 

The place was alive with noise—boots thudding on floorboards, spoons scraping wooden bowls, tankards clinking, and a bard half-playing a lute in the corner.

He picked a seat in the shadowed edge of the room. A steaming plate soon arrived: grilled steak, charred corn on the cob, thick black bread, and stew.

For a time, Alexis allowed himself to enjoy it. It had been too long since he'd eaten alone in a crowd without eyes on his back.

But his ears worked even as he chewed.

"Did you hear? The glorious general returned from the East," one older merchant was saying to his table. "Took the barren lands. Showed those Eastern dogs what real steel tastes like."

"Aye," someone chimed in, raising a mug. "Half the boys I know are lining up to join now. Imagine serving under Alexis!"

In the shadows, Alexis snorted softly.

Then a lower voice, cautious and hushed, filtered through the din.

"But what has all this brought us, truly? The roads to our farms are still ruined. My sister's boy got drafted last year, never came back. And the king… he's bleeding the treasury dry on these wars."

Another voice, quieter still:

"The general's too powerful. The king won't tolerate it much longer. He'll either strip Alexis of his rank—or have him silenced."

Alexis continued eating, gaze lowered, expression unreadable. He didn't flinch. Didn't show any sign of hearing.

But he had. Every word.

And then, as if summoned by the whisper of memory, a man with long black hair passed by the window outside.

His steps paused in the lamplight for only a second—but that was enough.

Hiral.

Or… not him. The hair was different. The gait is wrong. But for a breath—just one—his mind raced.

He huffed a laugh into his mug. "You've really gotten under my skin, haven't you?"

He finished his last bite of corn, left a generous payment on the table, and slipped out into the cool air. The street was quieter now, but lanterns still flickered and stars blinked to life above.

Then he looked up at the moon—full and glowing.

"Been a month, huh?" he murmured. "Somehow still feels like yesterday."

The breeze caught his coat as he turned toward the nearest inn, eyes shadowed but alert.

Tomorrow, he would visit the market, pose as a traveler from the Eastern front, and hear what the merchants were whispering. 

He'd listen for the shape of unrest, for rumors of power shifts, for the mood of a kingdom that once celebrated him but now might turn on him.

But for tonight…

He let himself feel the weight of the silence.

And in it, he admitted what he couldn't say aloud:

If we were in another world… maybe I'd have followed you instead.