Fake and True Smiles

The clinic smelled of ground herbs, alcohol, and faint decay—a scent Hiral had grown familiar with during his travels as both a general and, now, a "sickly envoy." 

He sat perched on a rough wooden bench in a private corner, studying small jars of medicine laid neatly on a tray. Each one had a label boasting of health benefits, vitality restoration, or relief for the chronically ill. 

But Hiral's mind was elsewhere.

He carefully unsealed each jar and, with the practiced grace of a soldier-turned-strategist, identified the hidden elements—powdered moon poppy for dream-inducing poisons, dried fire pepper root that could double as a mild paralytic, and a rare moss from the southern wetlands that, when steeped long enough, acted as a slow-acting sedative.

"This entire nation is a garden of weapons disguised as remedies," he mused, inwardly pleased.

It was during this thought, as he was sealing one jar back with a faint click, that he heard a voice.

Smooth. Warm. Too carefully casual.

"Ah, you must be Envoy Jiral…"

Hiral did not need to look up.

He felt the shift in air.

The slight pause in breath.

The practiced rhythm of a soldier feigning the gait of a merchant.

Alexis.

Hiral allowed a few seconds of hesitation, calculated to seem weak, before lifting his gaze. 

The man standing before him had light brown hair, tousled and plain. 

Green eyes, soft and curious. But the jawline, the subtle weight of his stance, the way he scanned the room with practiced detachment—

"You didn't even bother to change your body structure, General Alexis."

Hiral hid his smirk behind a faint, trembling smile, schooled his voice into a breathy lilt, and responded with humble gratitude, saying all the right things with the right dose of charm.

"Merchant Miren. What an honor…"

The entire exchange was a performance. And Hiral knew he delivered it flawlessly.

Inside, however, his mind ran through a thousand calculations.

"So. He suspects me. No doubt. And rather than expose me, he invites me to dinner? Bold. But perhaps he wants confirmation, or worse, leverage."

"Then again… he might just be trying to see if I flinch under his gaze."

Hiral played the part of the gracious envoy to perfection, neither too suspicious nor too yielding, and when Alexis extended the invitation—

"Dinner. At my home. No court politics."

—Hiral didn't miss a beat.

"I would be honored."

But behind the layers of cloth and frailty, his eyes gleamed with sharp intent.

"You want to draw me out? Fine. I'll come willingly. Because you just handed me the greatest gift, General."

"A chance to assess you up close. To watch you without armor or soldiers. To understand where your edges blunt, where your walls crack."

He accepted the invitation not because he was caught off guard—but because he had already begun crafting his own web.

"You may think you're hunting me, Alexis… But I am already in your den. And I intend to learn where your weaknesses lie—through your kindness, your charm, your questions."

As Alexis turned and left, Hiral remained seated a moment longer, lowering his eyes again to the jar in his hand.

It was a tonic labeled "Healer's Mercy."

He tipped the jar slightly and whispered, with a smirk only his inner self could hear:

"Let's see whose mercy will be needed in the end."

****

In the modest residence tucked between merchant guilds, a subtle haze of crushed herbs lingered in the air. It was the scent of meticulous alchemy and deliberate transformation.

At the heart of it all stood Hiral—bare-chested, spine straight, eyes calm.

On a low table were five small vials, arranged like the fingers of a hand. Hiral carefully picked up the middle one—a soft violet tincture—and drank it in a single motion. Within minutes, a familiar chill prickled down his limbs. 

He watched in the polished bronze mirror as his skin lost warmth, turning sickly pale. Purple crept into his fingernails, veins stood out faintly against his skin. 

His lips took on a bruised blue hue, and shadows pooled beneath his eyes, creating the perfect illusion of long-term decay.

His pulse stuttered slightly—just enough to fool even trained physicians.

"Perfect," he murmured, tying the final knot on his black and red silk outer robe.

He moved methodically, every action rehearsed. His chest tightly bound, shoulder blades slightly hunched to mimic years of weakness. 

On his feet, subtly elevated soles altered his balance and gait just enough that anyone who watched him walk wouldn't connect him to the agile Eastern general once admired on the battlefield.

Behind him, the two loyal attendants finished packing a sealed compartment with Hiral's compiled intelligence.

Hiral turned to them, face half-hidden under a veil embroidered with fine threads of shadowy red.

"If I don't return by morning," he said softly, "use the back alley escape route. Not the one through the tea shop—too many eyes and too many nosy shopkeepers to note of."

They nodded, not flinching, not questioning.

"Split at the river bend. Disguise yourselves. One takes the coded scroll to Tirin, the other to Seran. Avoid all couriers. No written names."

"If caught?" asked the older of the two.

"You were merchants. I died three days ago from a fever. No one must know otherwise."

The younger attendant lowered his head in a deep bow.

"We won't fail you, General."

Hiral's gaze softened for a moment.

"Not general. Not here. Only Jiral."

With that, he stepped into the front room, his body already slowing down from the potion's effects. 

He took a few breaths, shallow and uneven, before sinking into a practiced slouch. His hands trembled faintly as he adjusted his sleeves.

"Time to wear the weakness they expect. Let them underestimate me further."

Just as the last ray of afternoon sunlight touched the edge of the eaves, a carriage pulled up. 

Clean. Well-maintained. The crest of a minor merchant—subtle but with enough wealth to suggest courtesy, not ostentation.

The driver descended and bowed.

"Sir Envoy, I've come on behalf of Master Miren."

Jiral—the frail envoy—nodded slowly, suppressing the need to breathe deeply.

"Such honor… Please, lead the way."

His voice was just loud enough to be heard. Just steady enough to pass as sincere. The driver, a soldier in disguise if Hiral's trained eye was correct, helped him into the carriage with the gentle caution one might give to glass.

Once inside the quiet, velvet-lined interior, Hiral exhaled slowly and leaned back.

His mask in place. His mind sharpened.

The streets of Ro's capital passed beyond the window, lanterns flickering to life like eyes blinking awake. But Hiral wasn't admiring the scenery.

He was thinking of Alexis.

Not the general, not the duke. But the man who had invited him with a warmth just slightly too sincere. 

The man who hadn't changed his body frame at all. The man whose eyes had flickered when he greeted him, with something far too honest for a battlefield in mind.

"What are you after, Alexis?"

"Are you searching for the truth… or for me?"

He didn't have answers. But he did have questions.

And tonight, with silvered tongue and veiled truths, he would ask them.

Behind his veil, Hiral smiled faintly.

Let the dinner begin. Let the game unfold.

****

The carriage wheels stilled before a modest yet refined mansion, its stone exterior softened by ivy and lantern light. 

Hiral, wrapped in dark silk, stepped down with graceful fragility. Every movement exuded a breath away from collapse, yet his eyes beneath the veil gleamed with sharp purpose.

The butler, an older man with careful posture and a voice trained in gentility, greeted him with a bow.

"Welcome, Sir Envoy. I shall guide you in. Please, take your time."

Their walk to the mansion's entrance was unhurried. The butler paced himself to match the envoy's weak steps without ever once letting his gaze drift too long to the unusual hue of his fingers or the faint shudder in his breath. 

Discretion, Hiral noted, well practiced.

Inside, the air was warm and touched faintly with cedar and citrus. 

The dining room, aglow in gentle lamplight, was intimate but tasteful. The table was laid for two. 

At its head, Alexis—no, Miren, the amiable merchant—rose with a smile that was far too sincere to be strategy. It unsettled Hiral more than a hundred swords pointed at him would have.

"Jiral," Alexis said with open arms and open eyes, "welcome. It brings me true joy to see you here. Please, sit by me—it will be easier for us to talk without raising our voices."

Hiral, bowing slightly with deliberate effort, let out a breath as though even standing was a strain.

"It is… an honor, truly. Your home is elegant, your hospitality…"

'Disarming,' he thought.

"…warm. I admit I did not expect such welcome in this distant land."

Alexis chuckled, guiding him gently to the seat beside him, their sleeves brushing just briefly.

"If your residence proves uncomfortable," Alexis said softly, "you are welcome to stay here. It may not be the palace, but I assure you, the walls are thick, and the meals warm."

Hiral blinked once, veiled lashes hiding his pause.

Why such eagerness?

Why such warmth?

He gave a careful smile, probing.

"You are generous, merchant Miren. Almost too generous for one with no ties to a poisoned envoy abandoned by his own court. Might I ask…"—he lifted a hand, trembling faintly—"what exactly do you stand to gain by showing me such kindness?"

He expected a measured lie. A diplomatic deflection.

Instead, Alexis turned his gaze fully on him, and said:

"Friendship."

No hesitation. No guile. No calculation in his tone.

Just a word, full and real and terrifying.

Hiral's heart skipped. Not from emotion, not from pain, but from the raw honesty in the answer.

"Friendship?" he echoed, almost softly. Then sighed, a quiet, tired breath—half from his performance, half from the tug of something deeper.

"You are quite an unexpectedly, friendly man, Miren."

Alexis chuckled as if they were discussing wine or weather.

"Glad my point got through."

Their gazes met—Hiral's, veiled by a fine mesh of gilded fabric; Alexis', bare and unflinching, far too knowing for someone so relaxed in posture. 

For a breath too long, they held each other's eyes. 

And in that fragile space, something unspoken stirred—like the flicker of candlelight caught in a draft neither acknowledged.

Then Hiral looked down and resumed eating, every motion as precise as calligraphy. Measured. Controlled.

But within, his thoughts spiraled like silk unraveling from the spindle.

What are you doing, Alexis?

Is this simply diplomacy by another name? Or is there… something else?

He did not realize how still the room had become until he noticed the absence of metal against porcelain, the absence of breath. Alexis was no longer eating—only watching him. 

That gaze, sharp and impossibly steady, was layered with caution… and something gentler, something more dangerous.

Yearning. Or at least the shadow of it.

Dinner passed with few more words. But both men understood: silence could disarm more deftly than a sword. 

And tonight, neither was willing to yield that edge.

Hiral set his silver spoon down with a grace honed over decades, the final trace of the meal vanishing into the pause of ritual. 

He dabbed his lips with the embroidered napkin, allowing his posture to slip just slightly into something more frail—just enough to reinforce the image of the weary envoy clinging to courtesy.

But his mind was honed and hungry.

He let his gaze return to Alexis—still cloaked in his alias of "Miren," still wearing that façade of ease. Yet Hiral saw it now. That tautness beneath the quiet. 

The calculation behind every movement. Alexis was no idle noble or wandering hero. He was a man used to standing at the edge of ruin, keeping the balance with one hand and wielding a blade in the other.

A general in a mask. And perhaps… something lonelier than even I.

"Merchant Miren," Hiral rasped softly, voice as fragile as aged silk. "Earlier, you spoke of the trade guild. May I ask... are you close with the guildmaster? I would hate to assume personal courtesy when it may have only been professional obligation."

Alexis poured them both a measure of warm spiced wine—though only he drank, leaving Hiral's cup untouched but full, like an unspoken test.

"We've been business partners for years," Alexis replied, his tone easy, almost teasing. "He's grumpy. Trusts no one but his coin-count and his cat. But a good man. No favor here. You're here on my own invitation."

Hiral nodded faintly, veil hiding his eyes, though not the shadow of calculation behind them.

A personal invitation. Not state. Not guild. Personal.

Then the web around this man extends far beyond politics—it touches economy, social influence, and, of course, military. He's too well-rounded. 

Hiral mused in his mind.

"So," Hiral murmured, head tilted as though impressed, "not only a commander of armies, but also one with the ears of the guilds. Tell me, do you also command the wind?"

Alexis smiled, unfazed. "Only when no one's watching."

Hiral laughed softly, letting the tone ride the edge between mirth and mockery. "And here I thought I was the only one pursuing the mastery of commanding the wind."

He leaned slightly forward, as though indulging in casual banter, though every word was deliberate, a gentle prod against the armor Alexis wore.

"Do you handle your own wine because you enjoy the taste… or because your tolerance is famously high?" Hiral added.

Alexis raised a brow, mouth quirking with something almost playful.

"Ah, now there's a question best tested firsthand." He raised his cup in a mock toast. "Perhaps next time, I'll let you see for yourself."

The comment dangled in the air like bait, and Hiral, ever the master fisherman, smiled and let it pass—filed and stored. 

A test, a flirtation, or both? The line between strategy and sincerity was blurring—and that, more than anything, intrigued him.

He parted his lips to offer polite thanks and prepare his leave, but Alexis shifted before he could.

"Walk with me after dessert," Alexis said lightly, reclining with deceptive ease. "The air will help you sleep."

Hiral tilted his head, a faint chuckle in his chest. "I fear I may slow your stride."

"I have a physician on standby," Alexis said, rising and offering no room for refusal. "You'll be safe."

There it is, Hiral thought. The key in the lock.

A gentle command. Framed as kindness, but layered with motive. Either a trap carefully baited, or a window left ajar—an invitation Hiral could shape to his own purpose.

He bowed his head, voice soft. "Then I shall burden your garden paths a little longer."

But even as he stood, legs trembling just enough to sell the image, his mind sharpened like a blade against whetstone.

So you want me closer, Alexis. But to study me—or to be studied?

And as a small tray of egg tarts arrived—a golden offering to soothe the edges of politics and silence—Hiral accepted one with a smile.

He took a bite. The crust shattered delicately, the custard warm and sweet.

"Even your kitchens are dangerous," he said lightly.

Alexis chuckled. "Only to men with secrets."

They shared a long look. One veiled, one bare.

And the real game, at last, began.

****

The garden was beautiful—curved stone trails flanked with silverleaf bushes, bursts of moonflowers, and a quiet greenhouse at the far edge. 

Alexis spoke gently, with unexpected joy, about cultivation systems, resistance breeding, and foreign herbs grown to adapt to local soil.

"Herbs like these reduce military illness by over thirty percent," he said, brushing a sprig of mountain anise. "Not bad for glorified weeds, hm?"

Hiral walked slowly beside him, spine just slightly bent, steps uneven. His voice rasped again.

"You speak freely of such things. Why offer them to me? I am no threat, I admit—but surely, no asset either."

Alexis glanced at him, his smile neither wide nor small. Just... true.

"Because I meant what I said. I wanted friendship."

Hiral gave a breathless chuckle at that, the sound thin and ghostly.

"A rare commodity in politics."

"That's what makes it valuable," Alexis said, his tone light but eyes watching.

Hiral gazed up at the moonlight filtering through arching vines... and fell to his knees.

His breath turned shallow. His hands trembled. Sweat rolled cold down his temple. His body seized in the grips of his own concoction—the drug working beautifully to trigger convincing symptoms of collapse.

"Jiral!" Alexis was at his side in a heartbeat, hand outstretched as if to lift him—only to halt when Jiral, gasping, raised a feeble hand.

"Please—just a... moment... not... too much... strain."

"Physician!" Alexis roared, and from the greenhouse path, the healer was already sprinting toward them.

The physician knelt and reached for Jiral's veil, his voice calm but insistent. "Forgive me."

Hiral allowed it—calculating everything.

The veil lifted, revealing a stranger's face: pale, sunken, jaw narrow with starvation, lips cracked and tinged blue. A specter of vitality. Not the vibrant, steel-edged general of war.

Alexis's breath caught. For a heartbeat, doubt rippled across his eyes.

"Is this... not him? Was I wrong?"

The physician nodded gravely. "Severe poisoning, likely slow-acting over months. He needs rest, herbs, possibly leeching... but he'll live for now."

The medicine had done its job, and so had the act.

Hiral, with great strain, thanked Alexis and the physician.

Alexis, with doubt still clear in his eyes, waved Hiral's thanks and let him rest.

Later, escorted once more by Alexis to the carriage, Hiral sat with a fragile posture but keenly watched the flicker of tension in Alexis's jaw.

"Perhaps," Hiral said with a breathless smile, "this is proof I make a poor friend. Would you still want one who might drop dead over tea?"

Alexis looked at him then—not with suspicion, not with doubt.

But with something dangerously sincere.

"Yes. I do," Alexis said. "Friendship doesn't ask for health. It only asks for truth. I wish you both."

Hiral's lips twitched faintly. He bowed his head.

"Then... until next time, Merchant Miren."

As the carriage door closed and rolled away, Hiral leaned back, finally letting the weight of the moment settle.

"He doubted. But... his sincerity shook me far more than suspicion ever could."

Behind his veil, the general smiled with soft bitterness.

"Foolish man. Do you truly mean it?"

And that sincerity and honest wish of Alexis, more than anything, was the greatest danger of all.

Hiral sighed.