Island Conquest

The winds grew colder as Hiral crossed back into the eastern borders—no longer as Jiral the envoy, but as the general cloaked in shifting dusk.

His figure was unremarkable under a cloak of plain brown linen, but his eyes missed nothing.

He had parted ways with his two attendants in advance, sending them ahead under strict instructions to report to the imperial court and delay any rumor of his return. 

They obeyed without question—after all, their real task was survival in the arena of politics, not battlefields.

Hiral's real concern was the road itself.

What he found disturbed him more than expected.

The village of Melim, once a modest trade outpost nestled near the cliffs of Raithe, now reeked of ruin. 

Houses sat hollow-eyed and roofless. The well was poisoned—whether from negligence or malice, he couldn't say. 

Children with ribs protruding from thin skin begged with wide, glassy eyes. Women no longer looked up when passing soldiers. 

And in the heart of the broken village, the smoke of an illegal den of bandits rose steadily. Their makeshift fortress was an old grain barn turned prison, reeking of fear and blood.

Hiral did not have time. He knew he didn't.

But he couldn't ignore it.

Steel drawn, he stormed the den at nightfall.

The fight was brief but brutal. The thugs scattered like rats—but not before one tried to set the prisoners alight. 

Hiral had killed without hesitation, blade flashing like a warning through shadows. He freed the captives—fifty souls, broken and scarred, eyes filled with nothing but distrust.

He left a few crates of food he could spare from his stores, wrote a decree for the nearest eastern garrison to take over protection, and posted his own seal. 

He promised aid. He made it as official as he could.

But he could not stay.

He departed with scornful stares following him. He understood.

His aid had come late.

Hiral pressed his lips and rode faster, hoping to reach the capital faster and not be too late to let the court act. 

****

The Empress's palace was a structure of endless jade and ivory, guarded not only by soldiers but serpentine whispers that curved through its corridors. 

The scent of incense masked the rot of internal power plays. Hiral walked through it all like he always did—untouched but watched.

He was announced in the court under his title:

"General Hiral of the Eastern Command. Returned from Ro."

He knelt in the grand hall before Empress Shana, radiant and sharp as ever in crimson robes, the white serpent ring upon her hand a quiet threat and promise.

"Rise, General."

He stood.

"You have something to report?" she asked, brows arching delicately.

"The western kingdom prepares its campaign. The island is their target. But I've secured intelligence, naval gaps, and a way to meet the highest ruling figure there. If I act now, I can secure it for the East before they even set foot."

Shana tilted her head slightly.

"How efficient. And in Ro… were you compromised?"

"No, Your Majesty," Hiral replied evenly. "I made sure make a clean cut out of there. Jiral is dead. The western court is in disarray over it. General Alexis is distracted. Their attention is fractured."

She smiled at that. But then it shifted to one that didn't reach her eyes.

"And you ask something of me, don't you?"

Hiral met her gaze squarely.

"I want resources rerouted. The outer villages—Melim, Telra's Path, even the southern ridge—they're falling apart. I saw it with my own eyes. I can use the island conquest as a political victory, but if the foundation here crumbles, it won't last."

The Empress studied him.

"You speak with passion, General. But passion without result is just noise."

She leaned forward. "Secure the island. Completely. Then, and only then, you may come to me with your requests. Is that clear?"

Hiral bowed low.

"Crystal clear, Your Radiance."

****

The heavy wooden doors shut behind him. He pressed a palm against his brow, sighing deeply. The smell of oiled steel and old maps greeted him like ghosts.

"Tirin," he called.

From the shadows, the wiry aide appeared, scrolls in hand.

"Sir."

"Divert rations from the surplus. Routes heading toward the Redwatch Fort are to make stops near Merun and Telra's Path. Quietly. No fanfare."

Tirin nodded.

"And funding?"

Hiral hesitated only briefly.

"The funds hidden from the Ravine's excavation—use them. Slowly. Untraceably. I'll trust that you know how."

Tirin cracked a tired smile.

"Worry not, General, it's already begun. The quartermasters think it's just old miscounts. They'll never see the pattern."

"Good."

Hiral turned away, staring out the tall, narrow window toward the mountains beyond.

"I'm going to war. But it's not the island I'm most worried about."

Tirin raised a brow but said nothing.

"Keep it clean," Hiral added, voice quiet. "No sloppiness. I can't afford another pair of eyes like that of the general of the west catching wind of this."

Tirin saluted.

"Not a whisper, General."

****

Hiral was meticulous, if nothing else.

Three days was all he gave himself.

Three days to craft a conquest that required no blood.

In his private war room—cleared of all attendants and guarded only by Tirin's trusted men—Hiral handpicked those who would join him. 

Not warriors, but whisperers, mediators, merchants' kin, and ex-scribes with tongues slicker than blades. 

It was slow work—many had past loyalties or tendencies to speak when they ought not—but eventually, Hiral curated a team of twelve.

Twelve mouths that could speak with care.

Twelve minds that understood silence was also a weapon.

The gifts they packed weren't gilded tokens or glittering baubles, but useful tools: salt blocks for preserving fish, intricately crafted weaves from the East that protected harvests from mildew, and bottles of salve for ailments caused by island wind and sea—rich with camphor, lavender, and aloe.

But the crowning piece: an assortment of tinctures and herbal brews for clarity of mind, designed by the monks of Kashiwa. 

All of it wrapped not in arrogance, but practicality.

An offering of peace—not to subjugate, but to shield.

When the dawn of departure arrived, Hiral vanished.

No ceremony. No escort through the capital gates.

No word left behind, save for a single seal pressed onto Tirin's hands.

Only Empress Shana knew.

And she let the court stew.

The ministers bickered and wrung their hands—half of them preparing rebukes, the others gathering proposals to align themselves with the General. 

But there was no one to direct it to. Hiral had, once again, slipped through their fingers.

Shana sat on her throne of gold and smoke, sipping sweet tea laced with pomegranate.

"Let them chase ghosts," she murmured with a flicker of mirth in her gaze.

"He does more than any of them can achieve in a hundred court sessions. And, he's great at entertaining me."

****

One week later – The Island of Keva

Hidden merchant maps, whispered sea routes passed from sailor to sailor, and storm-dodging paths not even recorded on imperial logs—all of these brought Hiral to Keva.

The island was not as large as some territories the empires claimed, but its position was key. 

Lush, jagged coastlines gave way to fertile basins and mountain ridges that held springs beneath the earth. 

It had been left alone only due to the stubborn will of its inhabitants and their spiritual leader, the High Priest of Vive.

But even peace had a cost.

Hiral's small boat docked at a pristine port known as Tula, where sea winds met the gentle fragrance of cedar and lotus. 

The port was minimal but well-maintained. No soldiers. Only dockworkers and fishers whose eyes were watchful, but not hostile.

Urin was already waiting, wrapped in a modest shawl, his dark hair braided in the old style of coastal nobility.

"You made good time."

Hiral offered a rare smile, genuine.

"I followed the tide this time instead of fighting it."

They embraced briefly—more a press of shoulders than warmth—but it was enough.

They walked along the pier.

"I heard about your son," Hiral said softly.

Urin's shoulders tightened.

"He's… better. Still fights the ghosts."

Hiral reached into his satchel, unwrapping a tightly sealed box.

"This brew clears the fog. The monks of Kashiwa crafted it from hawthorn and gold leaf. He'll still have to choose to heal himself. But it helps."

Urin took the box with quiet hands. A breath caught in his throat, but he only nodded.

"You didn't have to. But thank you."

They walked in silence a little longer before Urin added, "My brother's preparing rites at the inner sanctum, but I can secure an audience within a few hours. You'll only get one chance, though."

Hiral nodded.

"That's all I ask. I won't take the island from his hands. I only intend to raise a banner with no blade behind it—so Ro cannot stake theirs."

Urin stopped walking.

"And once the Ro kingdom pulls back?"

"Then Keva returns to what it was. Under its own sky. I'm only a shadow to shield it for now."

Urin watched him with eyes that had once seen the boy Hiral—tired, calculating, and far too burdened for his age. 

But this man before him… this was a storm, quiet only because he chose to be.

"I hope my brother sees the truth in your words."

"So do I," Hiral said, as he looked up toward the mountain where the temple rose like a watchful god.

As the port bustled behind him and Urin departed to make arrangements, Hiral remained.

A satchel slung at his side, eyes sharp, cloak rustling with the sea breeze.

A conquest might be what the Empress wanted, but Hiral, under such orders, will set a shield instead. 

A shield in the shadows… so no one else could force their light.

****

The inner sanctum of the Temple of Vive was nothing like the gilded shrines of empire. 

It was quiet, humble, carved into the forest rock and partially open to the wind. 

Moss blanketed its low outer walls, and birds sang where bells might have rung elsewhere.

There, seated on a broad mat of woven reed, was the High Priest, elder brother of Urin, and spiritual shepherd of the island.

His robe was plain. His face, ageless in the way those who lived with the rhythm of nature often were. His eyes, though, held storm-quiet and ocean-deep wisdom.

Hiral stepped forward and knelt with crisp, practiced formality.

The priest raised one hand gently. "No need, General."

But Hiral stayed kneeling until his breath steadied. Then he spoke.

"I do not come to take. I only come to shield your people. You've seen empires rise and fall from these cliffs. I only wish to let yours endure—free from foreign crowns."

The High Priest studied him, not just his words, but the weight behind them. The sharp lines beneath Hiral's eyes. 

The wear on his gloves. The deliberate calm in his voice, too calm for a man of his age.

After a long moment, the High Priest said:

"There is truth in your voice. And I see the sorrow of one who walks for others more than himself."

Hiral bowed lower. Not out of obligation, but reverence.

"You have every right to refuse. But if you agree to this illusion of conquest, I will do my best so that the Kingdom of Ro will retreat. They will not spill the island's blood to claim what is already spoken for."

The High Priest nodded slowly, his weathered fingers tapping his knee.

"To bend for one's people is not weakness. I have bent before. I will bend again."

Then, in a quiet but powerful motion, he lifted his hand and gave a full, formal salutation—one that temple keepers gave only to those whose soul had weathered storms and still offered shelter to others.

"It is I who should offer gratitude, Hiral of the East. Your kindness comes with a burden few can bear."

Hiral's eyes softened—surprise flickering there briefly.

"Thank you," he said, voice nearly hoarse. "Truly."

****

They sat at a balcony nestled in the upper tier of the temple, stone-carved and shadowed by flowering boughs. 

From there, the port city shimmered like scattered glass beneath the sunlight, and the waves curled silver at its edges.

A tray of simple snacks—steamed tubers, sweet rice, and tamarind-soaked nuts—lay between them. The High Priest passed Hiral a bowl of barley tea, still steaming.

"It is rare," the High Priest said as they sipped, "to find men who fight not for glory, nor vengeance, but for balance."

He turned to look Hiral full in the face.

"And rarer still are those who survive such a path."

Hiral didn't answer immediately.

He watched the smoke from the tea curl upward, watched as gulls danced in the air beyond the rail.

Then he said quietly:

"I've survived because I haven't had time to consider what it's costing me."

The High Priest exhaled slowly, then offered the kindest warning a man of his stature could give:

"Then take time. Eventually, the debt you ignore becomes the blade that cuts deepest. You cannot hold the world together if you're unraveling."

Hiral nodded, absorbing every word—not as a command, but as truth.

"I understand."

"Good," the High Priest said, smiling gently. "Now, guide your men to the outer sanctuary. They'll find shelter and rest. And anything you require—supplies, maps, guides—ask. The people will aid you."

The priest's expression grew firm, almost proud.

"We know what Ro intends, and I trust in your knowledge of them as well. So I am not worried about your success." 

The High Priest looked at Hiral with a smile and added, "And as you said, you will handle it not with soldiers this time, but with the use of Keva's own power, its people, their knowledge, and the natural barriers. So, of course, we will be more than willing to give you a hand, all will stand with you."

Hiral allowed himself a smile, slight, but real.

"I must have done something right in a past life to find such grace in this one."

The High Priest laughed softly.

"No, Hiral. This is not grace. This is reciprocity. You help—not for yourself, but for others. And now… others will help you."

They finished their tea in comfortable quiet, the kind reserved for those who understood each other beyond words.