Royal Audience

The capital of Ro glimmered with gold-touched marble and carved stones as Envoy Jiral—none other than Hiral beneath veils of silk—stood poised before the gates of the Royal Palace. 

Draped in a flowing ensemble of black and deep crimson, face obscured, only a pair of clear, calculating eyes stared out beneath the hood.

Beside him walked the newly dispatched diplomat, a young man no older than twenty-two, dressed in Ro's ceremonial navy and cream. 

His speech was precise, his courtesy genuine—a far cry from the last escort the ministers had saddled Hiral with.

"It is an honor, Lord Envoy," the young man greeted in Ro's traditional deep bow. "We've prepared for your arrival. The king awaits your audience shortly."

Jiral—his voice a breathy lilt touched with weariness—replied with warm gratitude, voice tinged with admiration:

"Ah, to be guided by one so thoughtful... I'm quite fortunate. I feared I would be a burden to someone so esteemed."

The diplomat, flushing under praise no noble ever gave him, bowed deeper.

"You... are too kind, my lord. I'm simply doing my duty."

Their small talk continued as they walked through the city's noble roads, Hiral skillfully drawing out information like a spider weaving silk through silence and smiles. 

He asked nothing directly, yet the diplomat—eager to impress, unaware of his own tells—answered readily.

"Count Ulren controls the agriculture guild... but he's bitter since losing royal favor."

"Duke Faris owns most of the spice trade routes—his wife's brother married into the border garrisons."

"Baroness Rhea is close to the Queen… a reformist in name, but no friend to foreigners."

And most telling of all:

"The nobles of the Black Falcon faction… they're pressing the King to find a new heir, since the Crown Prince is still... young. Some say General Alexis may be a better fit, though he doesn't seem interested."

Each word was another thread Hiral tucked into his mental tapestry.

As the palace gates opened, Hiral subtly began to cough, his body trembling ever so slightly as if his strength waned with every step. 

The diplomat noticed instantly and panicked.

"Lord Jiral! Please, allow me to escort you to the infirmary. The King will understand—"

But Jiral, ever the kind diplomat, raised a delicate, gloved hand.

"No, no... if I may… just a moment in the gardens. The air here… it's lighter. I've heard Ro's gardens are divine, and I wish to see beauty before I faint from illness."

Uncertain but moved, the diplomat complied and quickly ordered palace guards to remain with the envoy as he ran off to fetch a physician.

****

The lush gardens bloomed in calculated harmony—cherry-hued lilies and silvery roses curling around stone arches. 

Jiral moved slowly, trailing fingers over vines and benches, every step a careful observation. 

Three visible paths out, one shadowed tunnel beneath the lattice, two towers overseeing the courtyard, and a lone bronze bell hidden in ivy—likely a guard's alert system.

Efficient. But not impenetrable.

The wind brushed through the trees. 

Jiral closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in—not the flowers—but the palace's rhythm. 

The patterns of footsteps. 

The sharpness of discipline. 

This kingdom's pulse.

When the physician arrived, he hurried to Jiral's side. Grey-haired and meticulous, he gently took the envoy's wrist, checking his pulse.

"Hmm… shallow and irregular. Darkening of the nails… blood stagnation…"

His brows drew together. The diplomat looked alarmed.

"Is it serious?"

The physician glanced at him, voice grave.

"This man's been poisoned. For months. A slow-working one. Not fatal yet, but it weakens the body steadily. No wonder he looks half-ghosted."

The diplomat looked ready to panic. Jiral only chuckled softly.

"How tragic… and here I was, thinking it was just the cold winds of diplomacy."

The physician muttered while preparing a small satchel of pills.

"This will ease the coughing and internal pressure. But if you continue exposure… well, the sickness will return. You should be in bed, not groveling before kings."

Jiral bowed weakly in thanks, his gloved hands accepting the pouch with humble reverence.

"I am in your debt."

The physician left, making a beeline for the inner palace, unaware Hiral had baited him to do exactly that.

The physician's report reached the Prime Minister and two court ministers within an hour.

"Poisoned, you say?" one minister hissed. "By the Empress herself?"

"Perhaps it was her way of ridding him subtly," another whispered. "Sending him off to die on foreign soil…"

But the Prime Minister, quiet and shrewd, said only:

"Or he's more dangerous than we thought. Let us see what this envoy does next."

****

As the last rays of sunlight scattered on the garden stones, Jiral leaned against a carved bench, watching the physician vanish around a hedge.

And beneath the veil, Hiral smiled—slow and knowing.

The royal court of the Kingdom of Ro glittered with splendor, yet tension rippled beneath the gilded calm. 

Ministers lined the perimeter, courtiers murmured into jeweled hands, and at the highest dais, lounging upon his velvet throne like a bored feline, sat King Rhion—proud, unpredictable, and endlessly in love with his own voice.

He sat up straighter the moment the herald declared:

"Announcing the arrival of Jiral, esteemed envoy of the Eastern Empire."

A hush swept through the chamber. 

The carved doors opened with solemn groans. 

And through them entered a frail, fully veiled figure, hunched slightly beneath fine robes of black lined in blood red, a shimmer of silk trailing behind with each cautious step.

Beside him walked the young diplomat, attentive and anxious, his face rigid with formality as he supported the envoy by the arm.

The king snorted audibly, then barked a laugh as Jiral stopped a respectful distance from the throne and bowed low.

"So this is the famed envoy of the East?" the king mocked, voice booming with theatrical flair. "Looks more like an abandoned prey stumbling into a den of lions!"

A ripple of chuckles followed among the more arrogant nobles.

But Jiral, unwavering in his bow, spoke with a raspy, low voice, carrying a breathless tone of reverence but laced with something deeper—resonance.

"Your Majesty," he began slowly, voice both hoarse and strangely melodic, "to stand in the presence of Ro's might… is a marvel beyond compare. Indeed, if I am but prey, then I am grateful to have been spared by the most magnanimous of kings, who, with wisdom and strength, chooses not to crush a pitiful creature… unlike the Empress, who, it seems, delights in sharpening her claws on even the weakest."

He straightened slightly. 

His eyes—clear and gleaming through the veil—locked briefly with the king's, unreadable, but with just the right amount of vulnerability and awe.

The king burst into booming laughter, his arrogance thoroughly satisfied.

"A clever tongue! I like you! Yes, yes—I am the most generous of rulers, that's true. Even the heavens must envy my mercy!"

"And," Jiral added, bowing again, "your grandeur, your Majesty, puts legends to shame. The East speaks of many kings, but I find they all pale in comparison to the lion I now behold."

"Ha! HA! Did you all hear that?" the king crowed to his court. "The poor dog from the East has good taste!"

The courtiers echoed his laughter, some nervously, some mockingly.

Deeming Jiral harmless—a sickly, flattering diplomat whom even the Empress no longer cherished—the king waved a hand.

"Enough of this. You amuse me, envoy. You may stay in our fine capital and enjoy its luxuries. I grant you gold, food, and medical aid. Perhaps we'll speak again—if you live long enough."

"Your kindness shall be sung in letters home," Jiral said humbly, bowing deeply.

As Jiral was led out by the young diplomat, the Prime Minister, pale but always sharp-eyed, approached the dais and leaned in discreetly.

"Your Majesty, we mustn't lower our guard. That envoy… he speaks as a scholar, moves as a tactician. And his eyes—those are not the eyes of someone who accepts death so easily."

The king waved him off with a scoff.

"Bah. You fret too much. The man's already half-dead. What threat could he possibly pose? The Empress poisoned him herself, did she not? If she doesn't value him, why should we?"

"Because we can't judge the envoy from his frailty, Your Majesty," the Prime Minister said quietly, eyes fixed on the departing envoy. "Sometimes it's meant to hide dangerous intentions. Sometimes it's meant to hide a blade."

The king didn't respond, already bored and reaching for a goblet of wine.

The Prime Minister sighed and didn't push the topic, instead headed back to his office to deal with urgent matters the King eagerly passed to him. 

****

As the guards respectfully led Jiral down the palace hall, the young diplomat sighed in relief.

"That went better than expected," he whispered. "You truly are… something else, Lord Jiral."

Jiral didn't respond at first, only let out a faint cough, then murmured too softly to be heard by the diplomat:

"When one walks into a lion's den… it's best to appear too weak to be worth the bite."

His eyes flicked back toward the towering throne doors behind them.

After the audience with the king, Hiral—still fully disguised as the frail envoy Jiral— was escorted back to the quiet dwelling assigned to him. 

The sun dipped just behind the western rooftops, casting long shadows over the cobbled path as the young diplomat, cheeks still flushed from Hiral's kind words earlier, respectfully guided the envoy to the gates.

Waiting there already, arms crossed and mouth twisted in disdain, stood Master Qian, the physician chosen by the ministers to accompany and observe the envoy. 

Not waiting for the ministers reply to his report and, thinking highly of himself to endure prejudice from the westerners, couldn't wait to receive the true order from the ministers to be delivered to him in the next week. 

The ministers thinking it was wise not tell the physician the envoy's true identity so Hiral won't suspect him being a spy for them backfired. 

At the sight of the shrouded Hiral approaching with his slow steps and controlled coughs, Master Qian clicked his tongue.

"Good. You've returned," Qian said, voice clipped and sour. "I'm leaving."

The young diplomat blinked. "Leaving? But—"

"There's no point wasting my time babysitting a sickly man abandoned by his own empire," Qian cut in, narrowing his eyes at Hiral. "You won't last a month. If the Empress truly wanted you to live, she'd have sent someone else. I'm not about to soil my name by hovering over a corpse-in-waiting."

"Master Qian," Hiral rasped gently, still in perfect character. "Surely, you see that I'm already fragile… to be without even a healer…"

"Then perhaps you should've died before coming here," the physician spat coldly. "Better for all of us."

With a scoff and without another word, Master Qian turned and stormed off, boots echoing into the dusk.

A heavy silence lingered. 

The young diplomat shifted uncomfortably, clearly flustered by how Mater Qian cold treatment towards Hiral. 

Hiral, beneath the veil, only smiled faintly, his shoulders drooped convincingly.

"Please don't mind him," the young diplomat finally said. "I'll see if I can convince another physician to look after you. Someone more willing."

"You're too kind," Hiral answered with a grateful nod. "But I would hate to trouble any healer… perhaps just a map to the nearest public clinic? If I find myself truly on the brink, I'll crawl there myself."

The young man frowned at the joke, unsure if it was meant in jest or despair, but fished out a small folded map and quickly marked the closest clinic with ink.

"I'll check in again soon," the young envoy promised as he bowed.

"And I'll make sure to still be breathing when you do," Hiral replied softly, with a thin smile.

****

As the diplomat disappeared down the street, Hiral turned and entered the modest building. 

The moment the door was bolted behind him, a subtle shift occurred. The hunched shoulders rolled back. 

The frail walk dissolved into graceful efficiency.

Two silent shadows emerged from the deeper hallway—his loyal attendants, clad in civilian clothes but moving like soldiers.

"Dinner is ready, General," one murmured.

"Security?" Hiral asked, already pulling off his gloves and veil.

"All simple traps set. The rear entrance is locked and marked. Windows laced with trip lines. Anyone who gets past the perimeter will be heard long before they get close."

Hiral nodded and slipped out of the last of his disguise, his face bare at last—slightly paler from a week of carefully induced symptoms, his eyes now shimmering with the faintest trace of blue from a diluted herb.

As he settled into a simple chair at the low table, one of the attendants handed him a small vial. 

He drank it without hesitation.

"Good thing I already made some precaution before leaving for this mission. My own brew of poison that mimics that of a deadly one sure comes handy," Hiral murmured. 

"Better than expected. Producing the same symptoms of a long term poisoned person yet disappears in a drop of a hat with the antidote."

Before him, a humble but hearty dinner was set: rice, grilled meat, soup with roots and herbs—ingredients he'd personally procured.

He began to eat, calm, every bite measured, even as his mind raced through the memory of his audience with the king.

He laughed too easily. Took flattery without suspicion. Either a fool... or playing one flawlessly.

The words replayed in his head.

"I am the most generous king!"

Was that pride? Or misdirection?

Hiral paused, chewing slowly. He'd learned to read battlefields, but this court… this was different.

If it's an act, then the King is far more dangerous than he lets on. But if it's not… then this kingdom's center of gravity isn't on the throne.

He tapped his fingers against the cup of tea.

That leaves two possibilities: someone behind the throne pulling strings… or someone standing beside it—hidden, underestimated. Perhaps even resented.

His thoughts inevitably drifted to the one figure whose name continued to surface in every guarded whisper: General Alexis.

A perfect, shining symbol of Ro's pride… yet too bright, too quiet.

A shadow too large to ignore.

Hiral drank the last of his tea.

"Keep watching the palace," he said to one of the attendants. "Record every carriage, every visitor. We'll map the pulse of the court from the outside."

"And inside?" the second asked.

"Inside," Hiral said with a faint smile, "they think I'm harmless. That's the best mask to wear when you're after gossips and information."

He rose from the table, tying back his hair and stretching carefully.

"Tomorrow," he added, "we make our first move. We'll start with the Guild of Trade."