Preparation

The morning mist still clung to the low fields when the thunder of hooves echoed through the village. 

A lone rider, cloaked in crimson bearing the sigil of the royal court, galloped into the camp. 

Hiral, already in the fields inspecting barley preservation methods with a group of officials, looked up just as the horse skidded to a stop.

The royal courier dismounted swiftly, kneeling and extending a sealed scroll.

"By the order of Her Radiant Majesty, Empress Shana."

Hiral broke the seal, his eyes scanning the parchment.

[To General Hiral of the Imperial Vanguard,

You are hereby summoned to return to the capital within seven days to personally account for your actions and failures in the Eastern Barren Campaign.

—By Order of the Empress Shana, Ruler of the Ten Suns]

A stillness fell around him. Even the wind dared not speak.

Hiral folded the scroll with care and turned to his attending officers. "Summon all commanding officers. We meet at the command tent. Now."

Later, inside the command tent, the officers sat in a circle, tense and focused.

Hiral stood at the head, the Empress's scroll laid bare on the table for all to see.

"The Empress has summoned me to account for our campaign in the Barren Lands," Hiral said, his voice even. "She calls it a failure."

A few commanders slammed their fists against their chests in frustration.

"We avoided war! We secured peace with the Kingdom of Ro without losing a single village or soldier! How is that a failure?"

"She never wanted peace," another muttered. "She wanted prisoners. Glory. Blood."

"Enough," Hiral said, sharply but calmly, lifting a hand. "Watch your words. We're soldiers of the Empire. We speak with honor—even in private."

Silence followed. Hiral let it linger before continuing.

"She wants me to return to the capital within the week. I will ride alone."

The officers stirred.

"But General—"

"You will continue according to schedule," Hiral cut in. "There are still three villages that need our aid. Stick to the plan. Rebuild, harvest, restore. If I do not return before you reach the capital… arrive with your heads held high, your deeds spoken loud."

"But—" one commander began again, hesitant, "what if she makes an example of you?"

"She won't," Hiral said with finality, eyes like iron. "Not yet. She still needs me for her next war."

That truth, bitter and quiet, settled heavy on them all.

One by one, the officers stood and bowed.

"We'll hold the line, General."

"We'll make sure the villages remember who truly saved them."

"We'll keep marching."

They filed out with pride in their backs—even if fear lingered in their eyes.

Only Seran remained.

He stood leaning against a tent pole, arms crossed, eyes fixed on his friend.

"You're really going alone," he said flatly.

"She summoned me. I will answer."

"You'll walk into a nest of jackals."

"Then I'll bring a torch," Hiral said, forcing a small smile.

Seran didn't smile back. "The court is stirring again. Rumors say the Empress is under pressure from the northern trade faction. They're blaming you for interfering with 'economic opportunities' in the Barren Lands."

Hiral gave a soft huff of laughter and moved to fasten his sword belt. "Funny how their definition of economics always forgets starving children."

Seran stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Be careful, Hiral. They're waiting for a misstep."

Hiral met his gaze.

"I've danced with wolves before."

"But this time, you're bleeding." Seran's voice dropped. "You hide it well, but I see it."

Hiral's face softened. He clasped Seran's wrist with gratitude.

"You're the only one left standing at my side. That's enough."

Seran exhaled slowly, stepping back with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Safe journey, General."

"Hold the line, Seran."

****

As the sun rose, casting golden light over the repaired village, Hiral rode out alone, his horse's hooves the only sound on the dirt road back toward the capital.

To war again—not with steel, but with silver tongues and venomous smiles.

And this time, the battlefield would be the throne room.

Two days. No rest. No sleep. 

Only the ceaseless rhythm of hooves and the biting wind against his face as he rode, horse after horse, across the stretching roads back to the Empire's heart.

At the edge of the capital, under the guise of a lone merchant draped in travel-stained browns and a battered straw hat, Hiral passed through the southern gates without drawing attention. 

The guards didn't spare a second glance; no one ever suspected tired merchants.

The capital hadn't changed—still towering, proud, gilded at the tips and rotting at the base. Just as the Empress liked it.

He wound through back alleys with the precision of memory and years of silent observation until he reached a modest but refined manor hidden behind a veil of wisteria trees—his father's residence.

The front gate didn't creak—Mu would never allow it. The head steward, already waiting by the side path, bowed deeply and ushered him in without a word.

"This way, Fourth Young Master."

Hiral followed, face obscured beneath his hat, until they reached a quiet wing in the far end of the estate.

"No one has noticed your arrival. The Mistress and the other Masters are out attending court. I'll prepare lunch immediately," Mu said, already turning to leave.

"Mu." Hiral bowed deeply. "Thank you."

****

Later, in the private bath, Hiral scrubbed the dust and fatigue of travel away, sinking into the hot water with a sigh that came from his soul. 

The warmth leached into his bones, chased out the ache.

His eyes drifted closed for a moment, mind swirling with the questions that had haunted the road:

Would his father try to guilt him? To shame him for failing the conquest?

Or worse—would he smile that cold, knowing smile and try to push Hiral again to beg the Empress for a favor in exchange for loyalty?

Hiral opened his eyes and rose. There was no time for dread.

Clothed in light but formal imperial wear, tailored for breathability and silent movement, Hiral stepped into the private dining room to find Mu already setting the table.

Mu paused mid-placement and beamed.

"It's been far too long since I saw you dressed properly, Young Master."

"Don't let that distract you. It won't last long."

Mu chuckled as he finished setting the meal. Hiral gestured for him to sit.

"You'll dine with me."

"But—"

"I insist."

The two ate in companionable silence, the flavors simple, comforting. A rare peace, shared without pretenses.

When the meal was finished, Hiral reached into his satchel and handed Mu a tightly bound bundle of sealed letters.

Mu took them, curious. His eyes widened at the familiar scrawl on the parchment.

"These are…"

"Letters from Seran," Hiral confirmed softly. "He wanted me to deliver them personally."

Mu's hands trembled. His eyes glistened, and his lips trembled as he nodded slowly.

"That foolish boy," Mu whispered, smiling through tears. "He still worries too much about his old man. He should be honored to serve you, Young master. "

"It's me who should be honoring him," Hiral said. "He's more than a second. He's my only remaining friend."

Mu placed a hand over Hiral's, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"You'll always have us here, young master. Even if the palace turns cold."

****

Mu guided him to the back kitchen door. The manor was still silent. The nobles hadn't returned, and the staff would remain on the far side of the property until evening.

"You should leave before the Mistress catches wind. If she finds out you returned and didn't greet her…"

"She'll report it directly to my father," Hiral finished, pulling his hood back over his head. "Thank you, Mu. Again."

"You're always welcome here," Mu said with a fatherly warmth that Hiral hadn't felt in years. "Stay safe."

Hiral slipped out through the back gardens and out into the city streets once again. 

But this time, his destination wasn't veiled in dust and urgency.

The Imperial Palace loomed, its spires glittering in the late afternoon sun. 

Behind the grandeur and marble were shadows—schemes in every corridor, traps behind every smile.

By the time he reached his private residence within the palace, the sun was beginning to dip. 

The steward of his palace wing bowed low, already having prepared the sealed room for Hiral's arrival.

He immediately moved to the table and unfurled maps, spy reports, coded letters—all information he had gathered over the months, along with rumors he'd picked up before reaching the capital.

He needed to prepare for the council's venom, the Empress's wrath, and the arrival of the "glory slaves"—the disguised nobles he had carefully purchased in the black market, vetted and paid off to play their part.

He only had one night before the palace would move.

"Coming back earlier was the right call," Hiral muttered to himself as he scanned a list of bribes already placed in the ministries. "Now… let's make the most of it."

****

The faint scent of mugwort and burnt myrrh lingered in the air as Hiral, clad in the dark robes and wooden sandals of an imperial apothecary, stepped quietly into the Royal Infirmary for Palace Servants. 

His long dark hair was hidden beneath a linen wrap, streaked now with faint ash-brown dye. A slight curvature in his posture, coupled with the breathing technique that altered his voice's depth, completed his disguise—Jiral, the general's private apothecary.

The infirmary was dimly lit and full of motion—patients groaning, attendants rushing, bandages unraveling. 

It was here, among the lowliest of the palace's inhabitants, that truth spilled easier than wine.

"Jiral, you came!" said Old Doc Lun, emerging from the inner hall, his eyes crinkled with tired joy. "I was hoping you'd pass through before moon's rise. We're two hands too short today. The servants are dropping like flies from heatstroke and infection."

Hiral bowed, his voice now rough and unassuming. "You know I'll help whenever I can, Doctor."

"Good lad," Lun said, clapping him on the back. "Station two—burns and blisters. I'll send the salves."

Jiral got to work, sleeves rolled, fingers steady. He cleaned cracked heels, soothed blistered palms, and stitched torn shoulders. 

And the servants, half-delirious from pain and comforted by the rare kindness, talked.

They spoke as if he were no one. And that was exactly what Hiral needed.

"Minister Tael sneaks into the Green Wing every moonless night… they say the maid he fancies is actually Princess Lin in disguise."

"Saw three ministers in the Shadow Courtyard again, whispering like snakes. They're planning to crown the prince early. Six years old! Just so they can rule behind his back."

"The Empress's second concubine bit the first's ear in the bathhouse last week. He's desperate for favor… poor fool don't realize the Empress only watches the general."

"Still dreaming of the Western King, isn't she? All this war nonsense—just a way to get him to notice her again. Like a peacock dragging a blade."

Hiral gave no reaction. His hands remained steady, lips sealed. But every word, every thread of court rot, wove itself into his mind like a map of vulnerabilities.

They treated these servants like dirt—and so they sang freely, thinking none would care to listen.

After hours of tending and quiet listening, Old Doc Lun approached with a small pouch and a nod.

"As always," the old man said, "your payment." He placed a vial in Hiral's hand—blue glass, corked, sealed with wax. A rare potion that altered hair tone and vocal pitch temporarily.

"You sure you don't want coin instead, Jiral?" Lun asked, narrowing one eye. "These cost more than I can—"

"I prefer this," Hiral interrupted kindly. "It's useful for my work. And you've always paid me fairly."

Lun patted his shoulder. "Then take care. And thank you. You bring peace to this place. Come back when the General lets you wander again."

That night, back in his private palace quarters, Hiral shed his disguise piece by piece and scrubbed the dye from his hair. 

Before the oil lamp, he unfurled a parchment and began writing:

"Evidence of internal treason. Three ministers involved in potential coup. Possible leverage. Must investigate which one controls supply lines to the northern provinces…"

"Rumor of Empress's obsession with Western King confirmed. Dangerous emotional leverage—must avoid personal provocation…"

His quill moved fast, lines crisp, his mind sharper now than ever. He folded the parchment, tucked it into a compartment in the secret floorboard beneath his bed.

Then, moving to the wardrobe, he dressed—high-collared dark robes, embroidered subtly with the imperial seal. This was the garb of a general. A man about to fulfill the Empress's will.

But first—the war slaves.

At midnight, as the moon reached its apex, Hiral slipped from the palace and made his way to the underground compound where the purchased "prisoners of war"—disguised exiled western nobles—awaited him.

They stood in silence, bound not with chains, but with quiet understanding. 

Each had received instructions in advance—play their part, wear the marks of defeat, say nothing more than instructed.

"You'll be paraded tomorrow," Hiral said, voice firm. "You will not be harmed, but you must act convincingly. You were captured in the Barren War, and you belong to no country now."

The oldest among them, a lean woman with bright, wary eyes, nodded. "And when it's over?"

"I'll secure safe passage, new identities. Or you may remain and work quietly under my jurisdiction. You'll be protected—if you cooperate."

Murmurs of agreement.

Hiral stepped into the shadows again, gaze calm, breath even. His part was set. 

Tomorrow, he'd play the Empress's loyal hound—delivering her the "glory" she demanded.