Tension at the Cliff

The candlelight flickered across the polished edge of the coded report.

Hiral's fingers, steady despite the hours he hadn't slept, tightened ever so slightly as he read the line again.

"Unmarked agents sighted near the lower ravine and cliff-face two days prior. No sigil or affiliation confirmed. Possibly mercenaries or scouts from an unknown faction."

A chill rolled through him that had nothing to do with the cooling air.

That ravine and the cliff where veins of jade and diamond were hiding were Hiral's last safeguard. 

If Ro didn't fall into chaos, if the Empress turned her blade on him, if his plans failed—

That treasure would be the funds to forge a future where citizens wouldn't bow with empty bellies or sell their children to survive.

And now others had noticed.

Hiral stood, the report curling in his fist.

"Deliver a message to Seran immediately," he murmured to his attendants. "Tell him to send a double quickly. The most convincing one."

"Right away, Master."

He had no time to waste.

The woman stood before him in silence, her posture bowed, her hair tucked neatly beneath a sheer veil. 

In the dim candlelight, her resemblance to Jiral was eerie—the same pallid skin painted by powdered dusk, the same hollow eyes framed by subtle artifice, the same heavy robes weighted to bend her gait.

Even the cough was timed with perfect frailty.

Hiral watched her rehearse her posture, the inflection of her rasped greetings. 

He corrected small things—how the fingers trembled just slightly too much, how her breath shouldn't hitch until after the third step, how her "weak" eyes should still scan a room with feigned softness, not dull confusion.

Only when she passed his inspection in full did he nod and step back.

"You'll be sick for a month," he said flatly. "Severe relapse. No visits. No walks. No letters unless dictated by me."

The double nodded silently, memorizing her orders like scripture.

Hiral turned, opening a small drawer at his desk and pulling out a neatly folded map. His eyes drifted to the cliff marked in red. His mouth thinned.

He turned again to face his attendants.

"Send word to the noble patrons. Thank them for their kindness and assure them the store will open as scheduled. And let the Queen know I remain in gratitude for her interest."

He paused, voice lowering.

"But make it clear I'm no longer receiving visitors."

****

Disguised as a broad-shouldered merchant woman from the southwestern steppes, with her face powdered golden and hair darkened to the hue of molasses, Hiral passed the capital's gates without a single curious glance.

The carriage he rode in bore the insignia of an old and obscure trade house—bought for the disguise—and the guards barely looked up from their logbooks.

The sharp features of General Hiral were long gone, hidden behind soft lines, long robes, and a mountain of dried herbs and cosmetic goods. 

He traveled alone, speaking in clipped southern dialect when necessary, careful not to overplay the accent.

The sun was only beginning to rise when the capital was behind him. He pushed open the small side window of the carriage and breathed in deeply.

Pine. Earth. Wind untethered by silk.

He pulled off the outer veil and smiled faintly into the wind.

At last, no masks. For now.

Later That Day

Hiral had left one more trick behind.

Before disappearing, he had planted a report—an innocuous hint carefully whispered through a chain of mouths that would eventually reach the King's ears: a far-flung island to the west rumored to house a mine of black sapphire and salt gold, but shrouded in deadly tides and turbulent storms.

An unreachable prize. A trap for ambition.

And he knew the King's pride too well. If fed just right, he would dream of conquest, and he would turn to his most loyal wolf.

Alexis.

Hiral's lips curled faintly at the thought.

He'll have his hands full convincing the court it's not worth pursuing. It will keep him busy... and far away from here.

Still… A pang pulsed at the memory of Alexis's face, pale with worry in the clinic. The warmth in his hands as he carried him. That raw sincerity.

Hiral shook it off.

Sentiment is a blade to the throat. I can't afford it.

The road curved eastward now. Trees lined the path like sentinels.

The cliffs and the ravine waited.

And with them, either salvation for his people—

Or the edge of his undoing.

****

The faint whistling of the wind was the only sound that accompanied Hiral as he crouched beneath the jagged overhang of the ravine, fingertips grazing the worn ridges of a half-buried ore vein. 

Underneath the flickering torchlight, veins of deep green jade winked in and out of shadow. 

He had checked the encampment, spoken with the miners and the scouts in disguise, and even inspected the hidden storerooms he had helped design—each layered with fail-safes, each secured as planned.

Efficient. Discreet. Loyal.

Exactly as I need it to be.

But the relief of everything being intact didn't quite reach his chest. Not yet.

That unease had started earlier—just before he'd arrived at the ravine—when he encountered the scouts.

Earlier that Day

He'd spotted them easily: strangers whose steps tried too hard not to disturb the dirt. Their gear was western in make, but the speech pattern was southern—elongated vowels, clipped consonants.

Their bows weren't drawn, but their wariness was drawn tight across their brows.

When they caught sight of him—veiled, cloaked, and disguised as the traveling merchant woman—one of them instinctively reached for his hilt. 

Another muttered a quiet curse in their native tongue.

Hiral raised a single brow.

"Careful," he said in their dialect, soft but sharp. "You'd hate to insult someone who might help you."

Their leader—a sun burnt man with amber eyes and salt-rusted hair—narrowed his gaze. "You're not from the Ro court."

"No," Hiral said. "But I know it well."

That earned a stare.

"You're Southerners," Hiral continued. "Starving. You were told to scout for minerals in hopes of saving your people." His tone darkened. "But your diplomats were sent here with lies by Ro's court, weren't they?"

Silence. Shame flickered in one scout's eyes.

Hiral exhaled. "You're wasting time digging at dirt that won't feed your families."

He stooped and pulled out a bulbous root from the nearby underbrush. It looked dry, gray, and unappealing.

He drew a small curved blade and expertly peeled it, slicing off a clean white sliver.

"Boiled with salt and fermented lemon peel, it strengthens the stomach. Found all over your lands." He offered the slice. "You call it dead vine root. My people call it ghost marrow."

The scout took it hesitantly.

"There are more," Hiral said. "Trade with the wandering tribes in the barren lands—the Skyfire among them. Camel milk. Goat milk. Leaf-resin powder that acts as antiseptic."

He paused, then added, "Come with me. There's someone who'll help you understand how to survive."

The scouts had been uneasy, but when the Skyfire tribe welcomed them without hesitation—when the tall, gruff warriors and soft-spoken weavers both offered dried meat and laughter—the men had softened.

He bowed low with his right fist over his heart and murmured the old greeting in the tribal tongue.

From the yurt stepped a woman cloaked in deep burgundy silk. Her hair was silver-gray and coiled in intricate knots around carved bone pins. The matriarch Baba Eya of the Skyfire tribe.

"Hiral," she said simply. Her voice was rough as sand but warm as smoke.

"Chief Baba Eya."

He rose, and for a moment, the envoy mask dropped. He was simply a grandson kneeling before his last surviving relative in the Skyfire tribe. 

He explained everything—the false alliance, the scouts, his mission, and how the tribe could benefit from becoming the bridge between two fractured worlds.

She said little, but her eyes never left his face.

Finally, she nodded. "We will give them what we can. And we will remember who brought them to our fire."

Baba Eya's response served as an agreement and a warning to Hiral. 

Hiral didn't mind Baba Eya's warning that he will take full responsibility if the people HIral brought to her would turn out to be trouble. As a reply Hiral simply just once again bowed his head touching the ground. 

****

Hiral, with nostalgia and a feeling of relief from his success in redirecting the scouts away, went to the cliff face to ground himself in his triumph silently. 

The moon hung high, full and cold, bathing the cliffs in silvery white.

Hiral stood alone at the edge, overlooking the ravine where shadows stretched deep. He exhaled slowly, feeling the mountain wind brush his face.

It's safe.

The operation is intact.

The scouts are no longer a threat.

His fingers idly touched the stone where he once sat as a child, dreaming of just riding through the plains and adventuring through the barren lands. 

But his mind eventually went back to more realistic thoughts like securing the route, fooling the court, navigating noble favor, and surviving Alexis's scrutiny…

So now he felt only stillness.

He tilted his head upward to the stars—and froze.

There. A sound behind him. A shift of weight. A presence—familiar in its silence.

He turned slowly, and in the moonlight, a silhouette stood at the top of the slope behind him.

Cloaked in dark riding leathers. Hair loose and pale in the light. Broad-shouldered. Unmistakable.

Alexis.

Hiral's jaw tightened.

How—? He was supposed to be occupied convincing the King. I laid the bait myself.

Did he see through it? Did he follow me?

Alexis said nothing. He only took one step forward, eyes locked onto Hiral.

No hostility.

Just calm. Intent. Unrelenting presence.

Hiral stood motionless at the edge, the moon between them.

"So," Alexis said, voice quiet and low, "this is where your secrets breathe."

Hiral didn't answer. His heart pounded once, but not from fear.

He raised his chin and met the general's gaze.

"Secrets? General, I do have some. But so do you."

Alexis' gaze sharpened. 

The wind whispered sharply between the cliff walls, stirring loose grit into the silver-lit air. 

And beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, Hiral and Alexis stood with a stretch of silence braided tight between them. 

It rang louder than any clash of steel.

Hiral's gaze held Alexis's like a drawn bow. 

Tension carved the space between their breaths—too still, too heavy. Neither of them moved.

Neither dared blink.

Time crawled.

Then, slowly—deliberately—Hiral dropped his gaze.

The unspoken cut ran deep.

He turned, his boots crunching against stone as he walked away, slow and steady, shoulders squared but distant. As if none of it mattered. As if Alexis had never stood before him.

The air cracked.

"Do you wish to confess something to me?" Alexis's voice rang cold and hard, a blade dragged across ice.

Hiral didn't stop walking.

"Nothing," he replied. Flat. Indifferent. Without a trace of hesitation.

But his pulse beat harder.

Alexis's bitter laugh broke the cliff's hush, too sharp, too hollow. Then—motion. The rush of steps closing the space between them. Fingers reached to grab—

—but Hiral twisted, stepping aside with the fluid grace of a master. Alexis's hand missed by inches, slicing through the air.

And then it began.

No hesitation now.

They moved—a flurry of precision and restraint. Boots skimming over rock, palms blocking, sweeping, countering. 

No weapons. No killing blows. Only the language of those who had studied war but not yet chosen it.

Their bodies spoke what their mouths couldn't.

The way Alexis pressed forward, trying to corner. The way Hiral circled, dancing on the edge of contact.

"Do you really have nothing to say?" Alexis asked between strikes, voice rough with restraint.

Hiral parried, pivoted, breath steady.

"What would you want me to say?"

Alexis's grin was a shadow of itself, tight and cracked. "That you're not dying. That you're not Jiral. That you're not lying to me."

Hiral smirked, dodging the heel of Alexis's boot by a hair's breadth. "What are you even saying?"

"Don't play the fool." Alexis's next strike came faster, angrier.

"I never did," Hiral answered, locking wrists with Alexis mid-strike. "You're the one playing with shadows."

They broke apart again. 

The moon watched as they clashed once more, their movements blurring at the edges. For anyone watching, it would seem a duel fought to kill. But they knew—it was far more dangerous than that.

It was a fight with their hearts on the line.

Alexis's breathing grew heavier. His stance suddenly loosened—unguarded.

Hiral saw the opening. A clean shot to disable. To end this.

His leg twisted. His palm came down—

—and froze inches from Alexis's temple.

Because Alexis hadn't raised his guard. His eyes, stormy blue and deep, met Hiral's with a silent, naked plea.

Not for mercy.

But for truth.

The faintest trace of a tremor ran through Hiral's fingertips.

He saw the man before him not as the general of Ro, not as the puzzle-seeking merchant Miren, but as Alexis. Stubborn. Brilliant. Maddening. And entirely vulnerable.

The guilt rose like bile. For lying. For using him. For wishing—foolishly—that he could say something else.

Hiral dropped his hand.

He stepped back.

And then, before Alexis could move, speak, or beg again—he turned and walked.

This time, swift and decisive.

He didn't look back. Didn't see Alexis stand there, breathless, fists clenched at his sides, lips parted as though words might still come.

He just walked into the night, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the wind, and the truth left twisting in the space he abandoned.