Food for Thought

The sun had just begun to dip below the rooftops when Alexis, freshly changed from training leathers to a polished gold-and-blue evening coat, dismounted before the Prime Minister's mansion. 

The garden was wild—not neglected, but calculatedly untamed, a barrier of thorny roses and climbing ivy that discouraged both curiosity and intrusion. 

The cracked stone paths snaked through the chaos like forgotten thoughts.

The royal court had whispered about the invitation like hens pecking at a storm—an uncharacteristically personal summons from the man known only for sleepless nights in the council hall, not candle-lit dinners at home. 

Even the King had chuckled at the matter, insisting Alexis "humor the old man"—a clear attempt to smooth court tension with the illusion of control.

"A magnanimous uncle," Alexis had said in reply, his words laced with that practiced charm.

"Truly benevolent, to send his nephew into a den of crumbling vines and sharper questions."

He had bowed. He had smiled. He had agreed.

Because he knew the Prime Minister had something real to say—something the gilded throne room could never contain.

A butler old enough to remember three monarchs opened the door and bowed low. "Duke Alexis, please follow me. His Excellency is waiting."

Alexis was led through the Prime Minister's residence—a place of quiet authority and sharper memory. 

The halls creaked not from age, but from restraint. Every wall bore books and rolled scrolls, shelves stacked with maps too worn to be decorative. 

Cabinets held ledgers inked with bloodless truths. And silence, the careful kind, lined everything like wallpaper. Not even dust dared gather here.

The dining room, by contrast, was striking in its simplicity. Warm, grounded. 

A hearth crackled gently behind iron latticework. The furniture was old but polished, cared for. 

The kind of space where reality, not ceremony, was allowed to sit down.

The Prime Minister awaited him at the head of a table set for two. He wore soft grey robes, his hair tied back in a scholar's knot, lines etched deep around his eyes. 

No guards. No aides. No gilded insignias or false gold. 

Just the mind that kept Ro's pulse steady—and the blade that defended its heart.

Alexis took the seat across with an easy, unbothered grin. "I half expected a dozen noble daughters hiding under the table," he said, stretching his legs out. "This is far too romantic for a man like me."

The Prime Minister chuckled, slow and fond. "If only you'd take the crown, I might laugh like I was thirty again."

Alexis raised an eyebrow. "And inherit your nightmares? No thanks. I quite enjoy sleeping six hours a night."

Their laughter was low, colored by weariness. Not the weariness of age—but of burden. Of holding up pillars just long enough for the next tremor to pass.

Dinner was humble: stewed river fish laced with wild thyme, honeyed root vegetables caramelized at the edges, crisp wheat cakes with a trace of salt and fire-char.

Meant to nourish, not impress.

The conversation moved like candlelight—warm, flickering, and always dancing just shy of the truth.

The Prime Minister spoke first, voice soft but steady. "The border villages are thinning. Too many medics conscripted to the city. Caravans redirected or hijacked outright. The outposts are running dry—water, medicine, morale."

Alexis broke a piece of cake, chewing slowly. "The citizens are starving because the crown hoards too much. It's easier to gild the palace than patch the fences. But wolves don't give a damn for gold. They go where the gate's weakest."

The older man poured two glasses of elderflower wine. "A shame wolves can't be taxed."

They clinked cups gently—mock cheers for a dying stability.

Silence lingered, not for lack of words, but because both men were listening to the space between them. The weight of a country groaning under the illusion of order.

Alexis finally leaned back, voice quieter. "You've been holding the line longer than anyone expected. But it's fraying."

"We both know it is," the Prime Minister said, folding his hands. "The people don't just want change anymore. They expect it. And if we don't manage that expectation—shape it—they'll take it into their own hands."

"And the nation isn't ready for that," Alexis said. "Not yet."

"No." The word was brittle. "Not when a single fire in a border town could send four factions to war and a dozen merchant houses scrambling to rewrite the law."

Alexis stared into his wine. "The young are hungry. And angry. Too many people not enough jobs, too many broken oaths. They want a storm."

"And they'll get one," the Prime Minister murmured, "if we don't keep playing this careful, exhausting game. Tamping down sparks before they catch. Giving just enough to keep them hoping—but not enough to burn the rot."

Alexis looked up. "And if we misstep?"

"Then Ro doesn't just bleed," the Prime Minister said. "It shatters."

Their eyes met—one pair aged by years of compromise, the other sharpened by battlefield truths. Both understood the peril of revolution when the ground beneath them was not yet ready to carry its weight.

They did not toast again. The wine, like the kingdom, remained half-finished. Waiting.

The Prime Minister refilled their cups, but neither reached for the wine. The conversation had turned heavier now, its shadows longer.

"The king," Alexis said slowly, "still dreams of conquest."

The words landed like a stone in water—ripples of implication spreading wide.

The Prime Minister did not respond immediately. He reached for a spoon instead, swirling it gently through the cooling broth. 

"He thinks war will unify us," he said at last. "That a common enemy will bind the people tighter than bread or justice ever could."

Alexis's expression darkened. "But it's not unity when the foundation is crumbling. It's delusion. And it's not enemies we're uniting against—just his own thirst for legacy."

The Prime Minister exhaled through his nose, tired. "He wants to be remembered. The king who stretched Ro's borders until the sun had to rise earlier to meet them."

Alexis gave a hollow chuckle. "At this rate, the sun will rise over ash."

They both sat back in silence, the weight of reality pressing in like winter fog.

"Every skirmish he provokes," Alexis said, "every insult flung across borders, gives our enemies another reason to meddle. They don't have to invade. Just whisper. Stir discontent. Nudge a hungry guild here, a restless noble there. We're already unraveling. All they need to do is wait."

The Prime Minister nodded grimly. "We are fighting wars abroad and fires at home. And neither has the resources to win. Meanwhile, the people grow restless. The young hear promises of a better order whispered in alleys. And the old remember when wheat was cheap and taxes weren't paid in blood."

He looked at Alexis then, eyes sharp despite the fatigue. "We are balancing a nation on the edge of a blade. And that blade grows thinner every day the king dreams of glory."

Alexis sighed and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "I keep thinking there's a way to pull him back. To reason with him. But he listens to flattery, not facts. And worse, he listens to ghosts—glories of dead kings, victories won by different men in a different world."

"He doesn't see the world as it is," the Prime Minister murmured. "He sees it as it was. When empires were built by will alone. But our soil isn't rich enough for empire-building anymore. It's wet with the sweat of citizens who have nothing left to give."

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, quietly, as if trying to reclaim the shape of gentler things, the Prime Minister clapped his hands once.

A servant appeared from a side door, bowed, and returned a moment later with a plate of golden egg tarts, their crusts still warm and flaking at the edges.

"Truce," the Prime Minister said, sliding one toward Alexis. "We've solved enough of the world's problems for one meal."

Alexis smiled, the weight not gone from his eyes but softened. "You always know how to end a war."

He took a bite. The custard was still warm at the center—sweet, silky, and surprisingly delicate for a room that had just discussed the fractures of a nation.

The Prime Minister watched him, amused. "My cook's mother used to bake these for dockworkers in the south. Said they reminded men of sunrises and made them feel like something beautiful might still arrive."

Alexis chewed slowly, then nodded. "Smart woman."

For a few minutes, they ate in silence—two tired men in a flickering room, bound not by power but by duty. 

The war could wait until morning. The kingdom would still be trembling tomorrow. 

But for now, they held the line with custard and quiet resolve.

****

The fire crackled low in the hearth as Alexis followed the Prime Minister into the private study—a room of quiet weight, where old parchment and older memories hung thicker than the dustless air. 

The shelves were filled not with trophies, but with case files, maps, diplomatic letters, and books with spines softened by use.

The Prime Minister gestured for Alexis to sit in the armchair across from his own. Between them was a table with a simple tea service—green tea, lightly steeped.

"No wine in here," the Prime Minister said with a small smile. "This room demands clarity."

Alexis nodded, accepting the cup. He sipped. He waited.

"You've heard of the envoy from the east?" the Prime Minister finally asked.

"Only in rumors," Alexis replied. "A sickly man wrapped in black and red silk, polite to a fault. My spies say he barely leaves his quarters except to play diplomat. The physician they assigned to him calls him useless and poisoned—possibly by his own court."

He leaned back, fingers toying absently with the rim of his cup.

"His attendants do quiet patrols, but nothing alarming. Expected, really. I anticipated he might be more than he lets on, but frankly… he lacks the reach, the resources, the room to do anything drastic. I've already begun monitoring all of his contacts."

The Prime Minister chuckled softly.

"You make it sound as if I should simply hand you the crown."

Alexis gave a half-smile, gaze flickering toward the fire. "That sounds far too comfortable. I'd rather earn my sleep, not guard it."

But his humor faded as he tilted his head toward the old man.

"Still… you wouldn't have invited me just for tea and poetic paranoia. What exactly has you concerned?"

The Prime Minister took a long sip of tea before answering.

"My instincts, Alexis. The ones that have kept my head on my shoulders for four decades. That envoy… Jiral… he feels wrong. I don't know what it is. But he's not just here to nod and waste away."

Alexis didn't scoff. He had learned never to dismiss the Prime Minister's instincts, however intangible they seemed.

"So you want me to probe the envoy."

"I trust your eyes and your patience. And," the old man added, leaning forward slightly, "I also received a troubling letter today."

"From the east?"

The Prime Minister nodded. "One of my long-standing informants. The message was sparse, rushed. But it said this: General Hiral has been dispatched from the eastern capital under a sealed order from the Empress. His destination unknown. Disguised."

Alexis's hand froze mid-sip. The fire crackled once, and then was silent again.

"...Hiral?" he asked, voice lower than intended.

"It could be false," the Prime Minister admitted. "But if it's true, then it's no coincidence. The timing aligns too closely with this envoy's arrival."

Alexis leaned in, eyes sharp, the charming veneer falling away for just a moment.

"You think the envoy… could be Hiral?"

"I'm not certain. But if the Empress sent Hiral somewhere under disguise… and suddenly we have a sickly diplomat playing at weakness… well. The pieces may fit."

The prince of war did not answer immediately.

He simply finished his tea, placed the cup back on the saucer with care, and said—

"Let me confirm it. I'll visit this envoy soon. If it's Hiral… I'll know."

The Prime Minister offered a rare, grave nod. "Thank you, Alexis."

****

The guest room was warm and well-kept, a rare luxury for someone who lived half his life on the battlefield. 

Alexis sat at the window ledge, bathed in the moonlight, the wind rustling the curtains like a whisper.

He should've been reviewing what he learned about the envoy—the inconsistencies, the reports, the behavior.

But instead…

His mind kept drifting back to a different image.

The slope of a moonlit cliff.

Eyes so sharp, so quiet, that they haunted him more than the battlefield's chaos ever had.

"Hiral," he murmured, testing the name like a secret.

If Hiral was here… pretending to be a frail envoy… then he must be shouldering a mission steeped in danger.

Why would the Empress send her general alone?

Why in disguise?

Why to them?

Alexis chuckled softly, rubbing his face.

"What am I doing… hoping to see you again when I should be preparing to outmaneuver you?"

He pulled out the small balm from his inner coat—the one Hiral had given him on that long-forgotten night. 

He opened it, not for the medicine, but for the faint scent that lingered—earthy, cool, and somehow… grounding.

"You better not be that envoy," Alexis whispered to no one, eyes heavy with a mix of dread and longing. "Because if you are…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Didn't have to.

The moon heard it anyway.

****

The sun was dipping low over the capital of Ro, gilding the rooftops in warm gold as Alexis, now dressed in the humble garb of a silk merchant—dyed brown tunic, wrapped turban, no blade at his side—stepped with eager but measured steps toward the envoy's temporary residence.

His heart, traitorous thing, beat faster than it should have. Logic reminded him this was merely reconnaissance, a mission to validate a threat. But every step he took felt less like strategy and more like anticipation.

The modest building loomed ahead, tucked neatly between two merchant guilds, almost invisible in its plainness. As he reached the entrance, two attendants stepped forward. 

Clad in unassuming clothes, heads slightly bowed, they carried the calmness of trained servants—but Alexis's eyes immediately noted what most would miss.

Calloused knuckles. Scars along their wrists. The straightness of their backs.

Soldiers.

"Greetings," Alexis said smoothly, the accent of a merchant laced in his voice. "I come on behalf of the Trade Guildmaster. He asked me to follow up on a potential deal—the silk route your master proposed. I was told I might find Envoy Jiral here."

The two exchanged a subtle glance, but maintained polite expressions.

"Our master has gone out for a check-up at the nearby clinic," one said.

"If you'd like to wait, we can offer tea," said the other.

"No need," Alexis smiled. "If it's nearby, I'll go greet him there. It would be improper not to at least introduce myself."

The attendants gave him perfect directions. Too perfect.

"Appreciated," Alexis said, nodding. As he turned to leave, he added, "Your discipline is admirable. If all envoys had men like you, no one would dare touch diplomacy."

The attendants bowed again, wordless.

As Alexis walked away, his smile curled deeper, darker.

"Combatants. Loyal. And trained to lie."

The clinic sat nestled at the corner of a busy square, where commoners gathered to trade gossip with their ailments. 

Alexis entered casually, eyes already scanning the patients inside. It didn't take long before he saw him—the envoy, shrouded in black and red silk, a thin veil hiding most of the face.

From a distance, the man looked as described—sickly, slow-moving, his body lacking Hiral's solid center of gravity. 

His gait was different, slightly limping, and the voice—when he answered a physician's question—was softer, thinner, and heavily accented in a different eastern dialect.

But Alexis's instincts didn't let go.

Not when the eyes of the envoy lifted to meet his.

Eyes that held calculation behind the tremble.

"Ah," Alexis greeted, voice light, "you must be Envoy Jiral. I am Miren, merchant and humble servant of the trade guild. I heard of your interest in our silk routes and came to offer my assistance on behalf of the guildmaster."

There was a moment of silence.

Measured breath.

Then the envoy smiled beneath the veil.

"Merchant Miren. What an honor. I hope my condition does not sour your visit. I… ah, do not get many," the envoy said with an apologetic cough. "But the Guildmaster's generosity precedes him. Please, let us sit."

Even the voice, Alexis had to admit, was different. Not entirely—but different enough.

Still…

The way the envoy's eyes moved.

How his hands folded—calm, never fidgeting.

The tone of humility that cloaked the exact right amount of submission.

It was a performance. A perfect one. Too perfect.

"Forgive me," Alexis said, sitting, "but I had heard whispers that you are no longer fully in the Empress's favor. Yet here you are, trying to bring wealth to your people. I find that commendable."

The envoy chuckled, a strained sound. "Exile breeds opportunity, no?"

Alexis leaned in slightly. "Then allow me to offer you one."

The envoy's head tilted slightly. "Oh?"

"Dinner," Alexis smiled. "At my home. No court politics. Just trade talk. A man like you deserves a better welcome than cold rooms and sharper tongues."

There was a pause. The envoy didn't answer immediately. Alexis took it in, the subtle tension beneath the cloth. The calculation.

And then—

"I would be honored," the envoy said.

Alexis stood and bowed lightly, his merchant role still intact.

"Then until tomorrow evening, Envoy Jiral. I shall have my assistant send a carriage."

He turned and walked away, his face calm.

But in his chest?

His heart thundered.

If that was not Hiral… it was someone who could be close to Hiral.

And if it was Hiral… then the game had truly begun.