After Thoughts

The sound of three deliberate taps on the front door struck like a rhythm meant for battle—firm, patient, and confident.

Hiral's eyes rose from the page of his coded report. He had been recording observations, a habit he kept sharp in enemy territory. He didn't need to ask who it was—he felt the presence like a shift in pressure. 

Alexis.

Before the knock, Hiral had only sensed a faint ripple—a thread being pulled in the quiet weave of his safety net. Now, the ripple had turned into a sharp tug.

The door hadn't creaked. No trigger string had snapped. The alert line—woven with fine hair and scented wax—undisturbed. The usual signs that someone of skill had slipped through.

"He bypassed it." Hiral's voice was calm, but his jaw set.

One of the attendants bowed his head, guilt visible even through the composed expression. "We'll revise the perimeter, Master."

"No," Hiral murmured, setting his pen down and standing slowly. "You'll tighten the perimeter. A general walked in, and no one heard him." He didn't need to raise his voice—he knew the weight of his disappointment was far heavier than volume.

Another knock. Courteous now. Polite. That damnable merchant smile must be in full bloom.

"Time?" Hiral asked sharply.

"Earlier than you predicted," the second attendant replied. "You said he might visit in the evening, but—"

"Exactly," Hiral interrupted. "He is unpredictable. And I loathe that he knows that's his advantage."

He reached for the vial on the corner shelf—his custom brew to pale the skin, dim the pulse, and pull shadows beneath the eyes. 

With practiced swiftness, he downed it and braced himself against the cool flush that rushed through his veins. He coughed once—harsh and believable.

The attendants approached with the heavy black-and-red robe, and Hiral extended his arms, allowing himself to be wrapped in layers. 

Then, he reached for the cane—a slender, ornamental staff, part prop, part hidden weapon.

His movements became deliberate. Slower. He shifted his weight, practiced the gait. One foot slightly ahead of the other. Limp subtle. Shoulders curled. A single cough.

"Let him wait in the sunlit parlor," Hiral instructed. "That room puts him in light while I remain in partial shade. It will soften the lines of his expression—easier to read."

The attendants nodded and quietly left.

Hiral closed his eyes, steadied his breathing. This would be another battle fought in honeyed words, veiled threats, and truths that were always just two syllables away.

He hadn't forgotten last night—the veiled gaze, the strange softness in Alexis's voice. 

The look that haunted him more than any knife. The striken face of Alexis and his eyes full of complex emotion, but doubt clearly stood out. 

Hiral clicked his cane on the ground twice, then turned and whispered to himself:

"Let him see what I want him to see… and nothing more."

As he stepped toward the hallway, he braced for what was coming—not an ambush of steel or arrow, but a duel made of layered smiles, deliberate silences, and the echoing steps of two men walking opposite roads… toward the same inevitable intersection.

****

The sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains painted the parlor in shades too soft for the sharp edges playing beneath the surface.

Hiral stepped slowly into the room—cane tapping once with each step, robes whispering against the wooden floor. 

His breath rasped, chest lifting with the gentle labor of performance. 

His skin itched faintly from the concoction, and his pulse was so slow he felt the weight of every beat, like a drum muffled behind velvet.

He was a sick man. A discarded envoy. A shadow of Eastern grace.

And yet… Alexis looked at him with a blaze in his eyes.

"Merchant Miren," Hiral greeted warmly, hand light on the cane, his other palm brushing the doorframe as if he needed it to balance.

"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."

The smile Alexis returned was broad. Too earnest. Too unguarded.

"It's not every day I'm invited into such refined company."

As their hands brushed briefly, Alexis's felt firm, warm—steady. Hiral made sure his felt faint, a featherlight grip. 

As he moved to sit, he fought the temptation to test Alexis's reaction—would he offer to help him to the sofa? Or just watch?

He watched. Closely.

Good. Watching meant he still doubted.

"I've been told rest is best for someone like me," Hiral murmured, allowing a faint curl of amusement. "But I've found good company does more than herbs ever could."

Alexis's laugh was easy, sincere. "Then I'll do my best to be excellent medicine."

Words like that. Too natural. Too sincere. Too dangerous.

They sat. Tea was poured. Silence breathed between them like a careful third guest.

"You look pleased today, Merchant Miren," Hiral finally said. "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. Not forced. Not fake. But something sat behind it. Something measured.

"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."

Personal interest.

Hiral tilted his head slightly, pretending to be amused. Inside, his thoughts spiraled.

Personal in what way? Suspicion? Or something… softer?

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

"Or just a man who enjoys puzzles."

There it was. That flick of steel beneath velvet.

He's not here for kindness.

Yet… Alexis's gaze, though assessing, lacked venom. Lacked the practiced chill of suspicion. 

Instead, he looked at Hiral like a man trying to solve a riddle he wanted to believe in.

And that was something that almost caught Hiral off guard.

When Alexis brought up the guild master and the silk trade, Hiral's inner alarms sharpened. He kept his posture relaxed—one hand tracing the lip of his teacup, the other resting limply on the cane—but his mind reeled.

So, Alexis knows the deal. Has maneuvered himself into its very center.

Which meant one thing: He intended to stay close.

"I must thank you, Merchant Miren, for taking on such responsibility," Hiral said smoothly.

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

Promising deals. Or promising masks.

When Alexis brought up the tribes and the route, Hiral offered a calculated pause, tapping two fingers gently against the armrest.

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

And then, like dropping a thread into a still pool, he added:

"Though I do wonder if such a venture would attract the attention of the great general of Ro…"

He wanted to see the reaction. Measure the shift.

Alexis's lips curled. His eyes flickered.

Not insulted. Not alarmed. Intrigued.

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

For the first time, Hiral's breath stilled—so faintly he doubted even Alexis noticed.

But inside, the words struck like flint.

He looked so calm and his tone so firm and resolute, and I almost started believing I couldn't fool him.

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

Alexis's grin widened.

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

Hiral's skin prickled. That was dangerous. Dangerous in tone. In implication. And far too close to what he hadn't dared to name.

So he drew his veil tighter with words.

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

Alexis leaned in, eyes narrowing with intent.

"Unfortunately for you, some embers catch wind no matter how quietly they burn…"

Hiral smiled, serene but cautious.

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

There was no safe way to proceed. So Hiral shifted.

"Would you prepare what Merchant Miren brought?" he said to his attendants.

As they moved, Hiral let his gaze drop—to the tea, to the floor, anywhere but those probing green eyes.

He's too calm. Too obvious. But there's no trap. No sharp pivot. No pressure.

This wasn't an interrogation. It was… a man indulging in a curiosity. A longing.

And that realization unsettled Hiral more than any accusation.

He didn't trust it.

Didn't trust Alexis' ease in showing his longing…his hope. And yet, he found himself caught in it.

Such emotions clearly displayed almost distracted Hiral.

Almost.

And now, across the parlor, wrapped in easy charm, sat a man who had once looked at him as an equal on the battlefield, now looked at him as if he were someone worth protecting.

"What are you playing at, Alexis?"

He kept that question to himself.

He just reached for his teacup and took a careful sip—

smiling faintly behind the veil,

while the battlefield shifted beneath the weight of silence.

****

The soft sunlight in the parlor had long since begun to shift, golden light slipping into longer shadows. The tea had cooled. The tarts were barely touched.

Yet the silence between them lingered in the air, like something half-spoken, waiting to bloom.

Hiral rose first.

Steady.

Measured.

The cane clicked once, then again against the polished floor.

"Merchant Miren," he said, with the mild smile he had perfected, "this has been… a rare comfort. You've brought warmth, as always. I will remember this afternoon with gratitude."

Alexis stood with that same unwavering ease, that disarmingly kind smile.

"I'm just glad you're feeling well enough to indulge me."

His tone was casual. His eyes—steady. No sharp glint of doubt. No flicker of suspicion. 

Only warmth.

That consistent warmth unnerved Hiral more than a cold interrogation.

There was nothing left to read—no crack to exploit. And that was what worried Hiral the most.

He bowed slightly, fingertips brushing the edge of his cane. "Do send my regards to the trade guild master," he said with a rasp and a polite nod, still fully immersed in the character.

Alexis inclined his head, tone light but sincere. "I'll do so. Rest well, Envoy."

Then Alexis left. Footsteps retreating beyond the parlor. A soft click of the front door. The faint murmur of parting courtesies to the attendants.

And silence.

At last.

Hiral didn't move for a long time.

He stared at the tea cup resting by his side, at the faint smudge of his own lip color left on the rim.

"That was too smooth," he thought grimly. "Too calm. The garden event shook him last night. But today..."

Today Alexis had been resolute.

Not sharp, not pressing, not cold. But certain.

Unshakably so.

That made something in Hiral's chest twist—not in fear, but unease. 

Not only had his performance failed to dispel Alexis's interest, but it had also failed to sustain the doubt that had once been his best defense.

"Did I falter? Did I say too much? Was it the eyes…?"

Hiral clenched his hand around the cane's carved handle, the weak pulse in his veins thudding against the hollow burn of his special drug. 

He'd been too focused on Alexis's words, on reading his tone, dissecting the warmth.

And now he was the one second-guessing.

"Enough."

With a scowl, he turned sharply and left the parlor, only letting the limp deepen as he passed into the hall in case an attendant was watching. 

When he reached his room, he locked the door behind him.

The silk veil was the first to come off.

Then the outer robe.

The bindings followed, peeled away with a precision that bordered on aggression.

He stood bare-chested in front of the mirror for a moment, sweat clinging to his skin, his expression unreadable. Beneath the artfully pale complexion and bluish lips, he still saw himself.

General Hiral.

And right now, he wasn't sure which Alexis saw, him as Jiral the envoy or as General Hiral?

But he would not let that shake him.

"I didn't come here to gauge General Alexis' favorability towards me, nor play cat and mouse with Alexis. I have a mission to see through, so I will."

****

He began methodically checking the defenses—the pressure wires by the hallway seams, the small shard of broken pottery placed under the carpet edge that should've cracked if the door had been opened at the wrong angle. The hairline string on the windowsill.

All intact.

Except one.

Near the rear entry, the ash-burn soot he placed across the sill to detect motion had been disturbed.

Only slightly. A small scuff. Almost imperceptible.

But it had been touched.

He sighed. Low. Controlled.

"Of course he'd find a way past."

It only confirmed one thing: Alexis had come prepared. Observant. Quiet.

And Hiral would have to be even quieter.

With a small grunt, he turned away and returned to his writing desk. The intelligence reports from his network in the west were piling. He had routes to update. Names to review. Letters to cipher.

He had no time to dwell on warmth or familiarity or sincerity.

No time for regret.

"Still, if Alexis wants to play this game, I'll let him," Hiral thought as he pulled the next document forward. "I'll just have to play better."

A pang of something flickered through him as he dipped the brush in ink.

Guilt.

Only the faintest echo of it. A splinter in the back of his mind.

"If only you weren't who you are," he thought toward the ghost of a smile that had followed him all the way from the parlor to this room. "If only I wasn't who I must be."

Then, with ruthless focus, Hiral began writing his next report.

Because he couldn't afford to lose now.

Not to Alexis.

Not to himself.