Truth Peered Through the Eyes

The door had long since closed. The lanterns in the front garden had flickered to life, painting soft gold shadows against the walls of the mansion. 

And yet, Alexis had not moved from where he stood on the front steps—watching the carriage disappear, carrying away the frail, veiled envoy from the East.

Not just any envoy.

Jiral.

Or…

"Hiral," Alexis whispered under his breath, voice threaded with a kind of torment that didn't belong to a victorious general.

He finally turned and strode back inside, boots soundless on polished floors. His steps brought him to the study—his sanctuary and battlefield. 

He passed rows of invention blueprints pinned to boards, half-finished gadgets glowing faintly, schematics of transport systems, rations, water purifiers. All the things that should've mattered.

And yet…

His thoughts would not let go.

He dropped into his leather chair, arms resting heavy on the carved oak desk. The moment he leaned his head back and exhaled, a war began in the hollows of his chest.

"That body was too thin. The voice rasped in a different key. The jaw—sharper. And the hands..."

"Too narrow. Too delicate. It doesn't make sense."

Alexis closed his eyes and replayed it all: the moment Jiral smiled at his invitation, the way his eyes—with a tint of blue but has the same intensity as Hiral's eyes—lingered just one second too long.

The sickness, the staggered breath, the collapse in the garden…

"Was it real?" Alexis murmured. "Or did you plan that too?"

A flicker of amusement touched his lips, but it faded too quickly.

Logic screamed.

The envoy had none of Hiral's build, posture, or voice.

Evidence said no.

But instinct—gut-deep, soul-twisting instinct—clawed at him.

"The way you watched me," Alexis muttered to no one. "It was just like on the cliff."

He stared at his desk, fingers tracing the edge of the old wooden surface.

"And that smile… You held back the same way. Like everything behind your mask was flame and steel."

"Like Hiral."

He stood, pacing now, running both hands through his hair—blonde again now that the dye had faded out.

He wanted to stop. Needed to stop.

There were blueprints to refine. A supply chain crisis building on the northern border. The King still hungry for conquest. And the reformists begging for his support in the court's restructuring.

But all those concerns faded—drowned by the echo of Hiral's ghost sitting across from him, wrapped in red and black silk.

"What am I doing?" he muttered, laughing bitterly. "Chasing phantoms?"

He turned to the side wall—where a small case held the jade koi carving.

The one tied to Hiral's past. To his grief. To his silence.

Alexis reached for it, cradling the cold stone in his calloused palm.

"If it's truly you… why hide this much?"

Then again, wasn't he doing the same?

Hiding behind Miren, the merchant. Hiding the truth from the King. Hiding his longing in locked drawers and behind courteous smiles.

Maybe Hiral wasn't the only one pretending to be someone else.

He sank back into the chair, exhausted.

"Even if it's you… what could I possibly do?" he whispered to the darkness.

The room gave no answer.

For a long moment, Alexis just stared at the jade carving in his hand.

Then, slowly, he placed it back into the velvet box and locked it away.

"Just one more meeting," he promised himself quietly.

"One more time. I'll know then."

He didn't believe it, not fully.

But in that moment, it was all he could hold onto.

****

The morning mist hadn't fully cleared from the rooftops of the capital when Alexis, clad in the modest robes of Miren the merchant, made his way across the cobbled streets toward the Trade Guildhall. 

He walked with the ease of someone used to command, but his stride was tempered with anticipation, and something like nervous hope clung to his chest.

He hated how much it mattered.

But he had decided—he wasn't letting go of this hunch.

The guildmaster's office was lavish but suffocating, every inch crammed with ledgers and polished imports from across the continent. 

The Guildmaster of trade, Jin, looked up from his desk and broke into a smile when he saw Alexis.

"Ah, Master Miren. A pleasure, always."

"You're here early—unusual for a man of your leisure."

"I've come to call in a few of those favors you owe me," Alexis said smoothly, folding himself into the chair across the desk. "It concerns the Eastern envoy. Jiral."

Jin stiffened, then forced a chuckle.

"The sick one? I didn't expect you to be the kind interested in charity cases."

Alexis leaned forward.

"Let's say… I see potential. Hidden things. And I'd like to be the point of contact for any business he might want to conduct."

There was a pause—weighty, measured.

"You think he's worth the effort?" Jin asked slowly.

Alexis didn't hesitate.

"I know it."

Jin finally gave a sigh, leaned back, and poured two glasses of spiced wine.

"He offered me something curious," Jin murmured, sliding one glass toward Alexis. "A trade route few know of. Through the barren lands—technically still Ro's territory but barely maintained. Claimed it was a silk of unique weave and strength, drawn from wandering tribes. Artisan craftsmanship, too. Almost extinct."

"And did you accept?"

"Only a fool wouldn't. That kind of monopoly… it's the kind that rewrites power balances."

Alexis took a slow sip, his smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Interesting," he said softly. "Very interesting."

The barren lands. The tribes. That sort of knowledge didn't come from a diplomat's mouth. Not unless he had ridden with soldiers. Slept in the dirt. Shared meals with common folk.

All the points screamed Hiral.

By the time Alexis left the guildhall, the clouds had parted overhead. 

He made his way to the market with the lightness of a man indulging in foolish hope. 

He chose warm sweetbread wrapped in honeyed almond leaves, dried plum candies, and a few tins of smoked venison—rich delicacies any sick man would appreciate.

He paused at a florist and bought a sprig of blue ashleaves, a rare herb used to soothe nerves and promote calm—a symbolic gesture, perhaps, but he liked the message it carried.

When he reached the quiet street where Jiral's house sat, nestled between merchant guild buildings, Alexis didn't bother masking his smile.

You've hidden well, Hiral, as the sick envoy Jiral. But I know the feel of your presence. And even if the world forgets your presence, I won't.

Alexis then frowned, for doubt still lingered.

And if you truly are just Jiral… I will sincerely offer friendship for Hiral's sake. 

He approached the door and knocked—three firm, deliberate taps.

He held the parcel of snacks in one hand, the ashleaves tucked into the crook of his arm. 

His other hand rested near the concealed dagger hidden in his belt—not for Jiral, of course, but because Alexis knew the dance of secrets always came with shadows.

The door creaked open.

One of the attendants looked out, eyes cool, assessing—until they recognized him.

"Merchant Miren," the attendant said smoothly. "You honor us."

"Only returning a kindness," Alexis said with his warmest, most unreadable smile.

"And perhaps hoping for another evening of conversation with a most fascinating envoy."

The moment Alexis stepped into the house, he felt the quiet tension humming beneath the polished floors and neatly ordered walls. 

The kind of silence made not from absence, but from intent.

A silence fit for hiding truths.

Still, Alexis played his role well, wearing the same disarming smile he'd used on hostile diplomats and paranoid generals. 

He held out the small parcels—sweetbread, smoked venison, plum candies, and a bundle of fresh blue ashleaves.

"For the household," he said amiably. "To help ease the long days and sweeten the short ones."

The two attendants, precise and unreadable, accepted the gifts with bowed heads.

"You are too kind, Merchant Miren," one said, voice steady. "Our master is resting, but we shall assist him shortly. He will greet you soon."

"Ah," Alexis replied, with a soft chuckle and a glance toward the distant hallway, "no need to rush. I'm patient. And I've got time to spare."

They led him to a sunlit parlor, a warm chamber with golden light spilling over a cushioned window seat and an elegant set of pale blue sofas. 

Books were stacked neatly on the shelf, a pot of steaming tea sat waiting, untouched.

Alexis took a seat, crossing one leg over the other with the casual grace of someone used to hosting, not being hosted. 

But his eyes moved—constantly calculating. The materials, the layout, the pressure points of the room. 

And most importantly, the ways someone like Hiral might design a place for dual purpose—comfort above, strategy below.

If this truly is Hiral, he's gone to lengths I didn't think necessary. But then again… maybe it's exactly what he would do.

Wouldn't I do the same, if our positions were reversed?

Still, Alexis sighed faintly and leaned back, letting the cushions cradle him. Doubt pressed at the edges of his thoughts.

Am I chasing a ghost out of longing? Turning every quiet resemblance into proof, just because I miss the man too much to think straight?

He didn't know. But that was the problem with instincts—they didn't always come with logic.

Then came the shuffle of slow footsteps.

The door opened gently, and Jiral the envoy stepped in, supported by a cane, one hand lightly gripping the frame as though steadying himself before taking each step.

He looked every bit the role: sunken cheeks, sickly skin, faint purpling of his nails, lips blue-tinged, the slight rasp of breath. Even the gait—subtle, but off—fit someone whose body bore years of strain and damage.

But Alexis wasn't looking at that. He wanted to look beyond any symptoms or cosmetic tricks.

His gaze snapped up, locked onto the man's eyes.

Tinted blue, yes. But it was in the clarity. The weight behind them. The sharp, cautious observation, a flicker that seems to show calculation in the act of appearing frail.

That, Alexis thought, was not an envoy's gaze.

It was of a general's.

"Merchant Miren," Jiral said warmly, his voice still rasped but gracious. "You honor my home with your visit. My attendants said you brought gifts—how generous of you. I hope the tea here is up to your standards."

Alexis stood and offered his hand with a broad grin that felt too sincere to fake.

"It's not every day I'm invited into such refined company. I should be thanking you for making time for me, despite your condition."

Jiral took his hand briefly, weakly, then let go and slowly made his way to the sofa.

"I've been told rest is best for someone like me," Jiral murmured with a faint smile. "But I've found good company does more than herbs ever could."

"Then I'll do my best to be excellent medicine," Alexis replied, watching every flicker in the man's expression, every twitch of suppressed fatigue—or calculation.

They sat. Tea was poured. Silence stretched between them just a breath too long.

And then Jiral spoke again, lightly.

"You look pleased today, Merchant Miren. I hope my invitation wasn't just out of politeness. Surely the Trade Guild hasn't burdened you too quickly with more of my affairs?"

Alexis chuckled. But his grin had edges now.

"Let's just say I've taken a… personal interest in your recovery. It'd be a shame if your talents went to waste without seeing the west at its finest."

Jiral tilted his head faintly, as if amused.

"How thoughtful. One might think I have a guardian angel."

Alexis leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Or just a man who enjoys puzzles."

The two men sat across from one another. One veiled in silk and sickness. The other veiled in charm and steel.

And both—dangerously close to seeing the other too clearly.

Alexis lifted his teacup with an ease he didn't feel. 

The warmth bled into his fingers, but the air between him and Jiral the veiled envoy was chilled by subtlety—measured glances, veiled barbs, and laughter sheathed in silk.

Across from him, Jiral sat with practiced grace. 

Every movement slow, but never sluggish. Every breath shallow, yet never faltering. The performance was near flawless.

But Alexis couldn't trust that perfection. Especially not when it stared back with familiar eyes.

"So, how has your health been?" Alexis asked gently, breaking the silence. "I imagine even a short walk must leave you winded in your state."

He watched closely. The way Jiral's fingers wrapped around the porcelain cup, the flicker of his lashes before answering.

"I manage," Jiral replied, voice a breath above a whisper. "The west's climate is gentler than expected. A kindness I wasn't prepared for."

Alexis smiled, polite but laced with curiosity. He swirled the tea in his cup.

"Kindness isn't the west's strongest reputation," he mused. "Though… it's certainly accommodating enough for business."

Jiral tilted his head just so, feigning interest.

"Business, huh."

Alexis set the teacup down with a gentle clink and leaned slightly forward.

"Yes, business. I happened to stop by the trade guild on my way here, and the guild master, Jin, happened to delegate a task to me," he said casually. 

"He's decided to assign me as your personal proxy to handle your ventures—silk routes, artisans, trade passages. All of it. We'll be working together… often."

"How efficient," Jiral said smoothly with a frail smile. "I must thank you, Merchant Miren, for taking on such responsibility."

Alexis waved a hand lightly.

"My pleasure, truly. I like to see… promising deals flourish."

Jiral inclined his head, but Alexis saw the flicker of alertness behind the veil. He pressed on.

"Actually," Alexis continued, "I've been meaning to ask your thoughts on that silk route. It's… unorthodox, trading with tribes most believe are untouchable. What inspired the idea?"

Jiral's fingers tapped faintly against the armrest of the sofa. Alexis noted it—not nerves, no—but timing. A pause meant to calculate.

"Let's just say I'm partial to opportunities most overlook," Jiral answered. "I simply connect the invisible paths already there."

And then, casually—almost offhandedly—Jiral added:

"Though I do wonder if such a venture would attract the attention of the great general of Ro. Wouldn't that be a wander. Though he seems like the sort to look toward conquests, not silk threads."

Alexis's lips curled, but it was his eyes that betrayed amusement.

"Rather than the venture," he said softly, "perhaps it's the envoy that warrants the attention."

There was a pause.

Jiral's posture didn't shift, but Alexis swore he saw the tiniest breath stall in his chest.

"Ah," Jiral chuckled softly, a ghost of a sound. "That sounds like a personal assumption, not the general's thoughts. Unless, of course, you know him well?"

Alexis leaned back, his tone warm and teasing.

"I've shared enough tea with the man to guess a few of his… interests."

Jiral's smile was serene, but there was a sharpness behind the veil now.

"I've heard the general is sharp. Intimidating, even. I doubt someone like me would warrant his gaze. In fact…"—Jiral exhaled softly—"I'd rather stay far from his notice. It tends to scorch."

"Unfortunately for you," Alexis said, voice lower now, his gaze steady, "some embers catch wind no matter how quietly they burn. You… seem to carry more than frailty in your sleeves."

Jiral tilted his head, the veil fluttering slightly as he murmured:

"That sounds like a personal opinion again, Merchant Miren. Not the general's."

Alexis gave a quiet laugh and reached for the parcel he kept with him apart from the ones he gave to the attendants.

"Then allow me to share something less controversial." He held the box out. "You must try these. The baker swears they're the best in the city—pear-glazed almond tarts."

Jiral glanced at the box, then gave a soft, genuine snort. He turned to his attendants.

"Would you prepare what Merchant Miren brought?"

The two bowed and moved smoothly to the sideboard.

And as Jiral looked down into his untouched tea, Alexis looked at him—not the pale skin, not the blue-tinted lips or the sunken cheeks—but the way his hand never trembled, the way his eyes flicked not to admire, but to assess.

You can disguise yourself thoroughly…

But you can't dim the clarity in your eyes, nor stop the way it draws me.

Alexis took another sip of his tea, slow and savoring. The corner of his mouth involuntarily curled up. 

Let the game continue, General. Let's see how long you can hold that mask.

Alexis was now greatly assured that his hunch was right. 

Hiral and Jiral were one and the same. 

The most important thing to Alexis, was that he's here.