Deception and Guilt

The scent of crushed petals and perfume clung heavy in the air.

The gilded ballroom shimmered with chandeliers—reflections dancing on polished marble, laughter echoing under vaulted ceilings as nobles paraded in embroidered silks and carefully curated masks of courtesy.

And amidst it all, veiled in gauzy black and crimson, stood the infamous Envoy Jiral—fragile, mysterious, and suddenly the darling of the upper court.

Hiral sipped only lightly from his teacup, head tilted just so, his veil falling elegantly over the sickly pallor of his face. 

The potent mixture he'd taken earlier burned faintly under his skin, keeping the illusion intact—purple-tinted nails, sunken cheeks, blue-tinged lips.

A few nobles whispered that he was too delicate to be in such company.

Others whispered that his survival despite such affliction was romantic.

Either way, they invited him in droves.

Hiral made himself the center of attention—but never the heart of it.

He watched. Listened. And when the ladies laughed too long or the lords leaned too close, he turned it in his favor.

"Lady Vasilla," he rasped softly at one glittering affair, offering his gloved hand with a flicker of tired charm. "Has anyone told you that your skin glows like moonlight on rice milk? If I had a pigment that matched your tone, I'd call it 'Pearl of the West.'"

The young woman flushed crimson, fluttering her fan to her cheek with a delighted laugh.

"You flatter, Envoy."

"I preserve," he corrected gently, tilting his head. "Beauty should be immortalized, not ignored. It would be a sin if the world forgot what elegance looks like."

It was small compliments. Tiny darts of flattery spun into conversations about skin, glow, and the eternal frustration with fading pigments, messy powders, or creams that smudged before court even started.

And that was when Jiral offered a solution.

"I've brought with me a few items I've developed during my convalescence," he said in one sitting, voice raspy with just the right tone of bashful modesty. 

"I had little else to do but experiment. I call it silk-glide cream. A cosmetic that stays, adapts, and feels like breath on the skin."

Small jars were passed around—samples carefully tested on wrists, dabs on the neck. 

They gasped at how smooth it spread, how light it felt, how richly it enhanced their tones without covering them up.

By the time his third invitation came, Hiral no longer needed to flatter.

The nobles asked him about formulas. About partnerships.

About investment.

He smiled faintly beneath his veil.

"A kingdom obsessed with presentation," he thought, "is ripe for manipulation through vanity."

Soon, even the queen took notice.

Hiral was invited to her private tea garden—a secluded terrace wrapped in climbing roses, where petals fell into tea saucers and nothing whispered louder than silk rustling in judgment.

She was beautiful, the queen. In her forties but still glowing, with the poise of a born aristocrat and the cunning of a seasoned power-broker. Her smile was that of a cat half-fed.

"I've heard of you, Envoy Jiral," she said, pouring tea herself—more a display than a courtesy. "My handmaids speak of nothing else but your miraculous creams and paints. It seems you've made yourself quite useful for someone so close to the grave."

Hiral bowed low with calculated reverence.

"I only wished to leave a little art behind," he said humbly. "My homeland has long honored creation as a final act of life. I thought the west might enjoy something of mine, should I… pass before spring."

She laughed lightly. "Well said. I do admire a man who thinks of legacy. Perhaps I can help you establish a boutique. One that carries only your signature."

"I would be honored, Your Majesty," Hiral said with lowered lashes. "But I fear none yet possess the exacting touch to replicate the products. I would require… a skilled assistant, trained to match my methods precisely."

The queen's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Your illness must not cloud your sense of practicality, Envoy. Surely you're not taking your secrets to the grave?"

Hiral smiled, soft as fog.

"No, Your Majesty. Merely delaying them… for quality's sake. I would never allow the nobility to suffer the indignity of subpar rouge."

She gave a soft, indulgent chuckle—but it was clear. She didn't quite buy it.

Still, she nodded. "Very well. I shall fund your endeavor. When your assistant arrives, I'll expect results."

"You shall have them, Majesty," Hiral said with a bow, all while thinking:

"And when I vanish, it will still serve its purpose, but not in a way you thought it would."

****

That evening, back at his safehouse, Hiral removed his veil with a heavy exhale.

He sat at his desk, hands stained faintly with pigment, a dozen sample pots drying in rows. 

His attendants returned from patrol and quietly reported no more breaches from Alexis or his agents.

But Hiral's thoughts were not on defense tonight.

Cosmetics to hide poisons. Powder to smuggle codes. A storefront to launder intelligence. And nobility to fund it all.

He glanced at a half-open letter—marked from a contact near the northern barracks. One of Alexis's scouts had made inquiries there. Alexis hadn't given up.

Hiral's hand hovered over the inkpot.

Let him keep wondering. I'll wrap my claws in silk, and by the time he unmasks me… the trap will already be too late.

He dipped the brush.

And worked.

****

The late afternoon sun bled gold through the sheer curtains of the upstairs workshop.

A table stood at its center, lacquered with use—scratches, stains, and the faint scent of rose oil and soot lingering over carefully sorted petals, powders, and glass jars. 

In that quiet space, among palettes and mortars, Hiral sat hunched over parchment, his breath slow and focused, every flick of his ink brush deliberate.

Lines curved into diagrams—soft pinks, golds, and earthen tones charted on paper as "ratios of hibiscus to rice ash" or "powder bases to preserve color against sweat." 

But anyone with a trained eye—and a key only Seran or Tirin could decode—would see instead military dispositions.

"City fortresses possess self-stabilizing pulley carts."

"Border patrols enhanced with wind-pressure firing devices."

"Use of thermally-sealed ration packs—keeps supply chains light, mobile."

Between colors and coded weight measurements, Hiral embedded specifics: troop patterns embedded in "color blending sequences," supply routes within "delivery plans," and most subtly, the warning:

"West army shows proficiency in siege endurance. Eastern forces must avoid prolonged engagements. Strike fast or not at all."

Hiral's brush slowed slightly as he shifted to another scroll—this one covered in hand-drawn technical parts. Each line was measured. Screws, coil segments, tube filters—all copied with obsessively precise angles and annotations.

In reality, they weren't cosmetic tools at all.

They were fragments of civilian items used by Ro's soldiers—multi-use firestrikers, foldable lens tools, compressed steam stoves… But embedded inside were mechanisms even he, with all his field experience, couldn't replicate.

"These are beyond our current artisans," Hiral thought, tapping the edge of a drawn pressure-ignition core. "They're not just advanced—they're efficient. Meant to be mass-produced. Ro isn't just a brute nation… they've invested in sustainable warfare."

He rolled the scroll, sealing it with a cosmetic wax brand, then slid it into a compartment beneath the floorboard. 

A series of color-coded vials were lined up there—each vial seemingly perfume but with parchment soaked inside. Some would be sent out tomorrow through the merchant courier system.

"Simple clear vials," Hiral mused. "Gifts for noble patrons. Scented oils, rare pigments. The courier won't even blink."

The trapdoor clicked closed.

The room dimmed.

Hiral leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. His hands ached. His eyes burned. He pressed his forearm over them to ease the strain, the faint scent of crushed geraniums clinging to his skin.

Almost there, he thought. I've secured patrons. Built visibility. I've laid the seeds in the court and touched the Queen's inner circle. A few more pushes and the fractures will show.

And yet, behind all the calculation and weariness, a quiet yearning stirred.

Not for victory.

Not for vengeance.

But for comfort.

"I want to go home."

His mind drifted, unbidden, to the hills of his boyhood. Where the wind ran wild and low across the highlands. 

Where his mother's laughter echoed in the fields, hair tangled in sunlight, and he rode bareback over valleys that shimmered green and free.

Those were the years before his father took him into the heart of the Empire, before blades and war councils, before he learned to wear silence like armor.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the fading sun.

"You don't belong in those skies anymore," he told himself.

But still… he watched the horizon.

Just for a moment.

And let the dream linger.

****

The marketplace buzzed with noontime energy—vendors barking their offers, fabrics catching the wind like sails, and the scent of fried dumplings and simmering spices curling through the narrow streets.

Hiral, veiled in his usual black and red silk and moving with painstaking slowness, wove through the crowd like smoke—unassuming yet ever watching. 

His cane clicked with each step, the carefully mixed drugs dulling his pulse, hollowing his skin tone further, darkening the veins around his eyes and fingers.

He was no longer a curiosity in the market. Jiral the frail envoy had, in time, become a fixture. A sympathetic story wrapped in foreign silk.

A few merchants smiled, offering him cushions to rest. A bread seller passed him a small bag of sweet bean pastries with a gentle pat on his hand. 

Even the gruff ironmonger, who once spat near his feet muttering "Eastern rats", now nodded curtly in his direction—respectful after Hiral had casually suggested a way to streamline his order ledger.

Still, beneath the calm, Hiral moved with purpose. His eyes scanned the stalls not for bread or wares—but for tools the West took for granted.

Heating stones that retain temperature over hours… Flexible bronze joints for adjustable farming carts… Cold-compression storage jars…

He noted each item's make, weight, and asking price with hidden sharpness.

They've integrated utility into daily life. If the East continues to measure strength in blades and blood alone, we'll lose before the war even starts.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught brown hair beneath a merchant's hood, a confident stride wrapped in modest robes, and the glint of familiar green eyes.

Alexis.

As Miren.

Tch, Hiral's breath hitched. Not now…

He weighed retreat. One alley turn and he could vanish.

But then Alexis spotted him.

And smiled like they were old friends catching up over lazy afternoons.

"There you are!" Alexis called out, cheerfully waving as if they weren't walking a knife's edge.

Hiral barely had time to rearrange his face into weary politeness before Alexis closed the distance.

"Miren," Hiral rasped, voice rough, breath shallow. "You honor me again."

Alexis leaned forward, his grin easy. "You look pale—paler than usual. That won't do. Come, let me treat you to some tea. You look like you need it."

Hiral's mind screamed protest, but his role demanded compliance.

He nodded weakly. "A short rest would be… appreciated."

They sat in a private corner of a cozy teahouse. 

The owner, recognizing "Merchant Miren," served their best blend. 

The porcelain cups steamed between them. Hiral sipped slowly, intentionally letting his hands tremble against the handle.

Alexis watched him, the concern in his eyes disarming.

That look again. Sincere. Like he's truly worried. Is it an act? Or is he really deceived?

They exchanged small talk—Hiral kept it brief, citing his worsening state. He even pressed a hand to his chest and coughed once or twice.

But then a real one hit.

Sharp, jarring—wet.

A metallic taste filled his mouth.

And then—blood.

It splattered against his palm and stained the fine silk at his mouth's edge.

Alexis stood immediately, chair scraping loud against the wooden floor. "Doctor!" he bellowed. "NOW!"

"No, it's—" Hiral rasped, but Alexis was already lifting him.

And for a moment, Hiral wasn't General Hiral in disguise.

He was just… carried.

By him.

A healer rushed them in. Recognizing the envoy, he didn't flinch at the sight of blood.

"This again?" the doctor murmured, helping Alexis lay Hiral down on a cot. "Didn't I tell him to rest?"

"He insisted on walking the market," Alexis said, voice taut with frustration.

The doctor cleaned the blood and gently checked Hiral's pulse. He shook his head with a resigned breath.

"There's little I can do. Any medicine risks further damage. His body's… barely holding together. All we can do is keep him comfortable."

Alexis's jaw clenched. "Nothing at all?"

The doctor hesitated—then leaned in closer, whispering with a glance toward Hiral.

"If he's someone you care for… you should prepare yourself."

Alexis went still.

His fists curled.

And across the room, Hiral watched from the corner of his eye, his expression slack with exhaustion, but his mind suddenly alert.

Is this real? That look in his eyes… grief?

No. No, he's just playing a part. Isn't it…?

His body, worn and drugged, sagged deeper into the cot.

...Or he truly believes I'm dying.

He hated that he couldn't tell.

Moments Later

The doctor packed herbs into Hiral's pocket and asked the guards to call a carriage.

Alexis stood nearby, quiet now, gaze unreadable.

"I'll see you home," he said quietly.

"You shouldn't trouble yourself," Hiral whispered.

Alexis shook his head, and offered a quiet, bitter smile. "Trouble? I should've done more."

As Hiral was helped into the carriage, he glanced back once.

Alexis still stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading light, fists clenched at his sides, eyes distant.

And Hiral—sick, spent, and tangled in lies—didn't know if what he saw was a ploy…

Or someone who really cared, and was slowly falling apart in real time.

Either way, he thought…

Good. Let him break, just a little. He's too dangerous otherwise.

Then he closed his eyes. 

The pang of guilt lingered longer this time.