Court Schemes

The scent of dried blood still clung faintly to the battered helmet cradled in Hiral's hands.

The iron, once polished with pride, now bore a deep gash across the crest—a wound meant to symbolize the downfall of a general, the defeat of an army, and the supposed final breath of Ro's ambition on the island.

The High Priest stood beside him under the boughs of the coastal banyan tree, his robes fluttering softly in the sea breeze. 

With quiet solemnity, he watched Hiral lower to one knee—not in submission, but in reverence.

"Thank you, and I humbly leave him in your care," Hiral stated, setting the bloodied helmet upon the priest's offered silk-wrapped box. "I hope he will cause only minor issues while I'm gone. And if he happens to be a threat to the island's peace, please don't be afraid to stop him with everything you got."

The priest's lips curled with faint amusement. "You speak as if he were a storm."

Hiral rose, brushing the dust from his palms. "He is. And that is why caution is needed in handling him."

The High Priest laughed full of mirth. 

Then, the High Priest's gaze grew more searching, his hands folding over the box.

"He asked to see you, you know."

Hiral did not flinch. "I expected as much."

"You could've met him—end this tension between you two."

"There is no tension," Hiral said flatly. "Only petty grudge. He does not need to see me to behave."

"Still, you lose nothing by seeing him."

"Exactly," Hiral replied, voice cold. "Which is why I refuse."

The priest let out a gentle, knowing sigh. "Then on your behalf, I will decline his request."

Hiral nodded once, formally, then turned to the waiting eastern delegation preparing their return voyage. 

At the edge of the rocky cliff where sea met sky, a wind caught his cloak, flaring it like a shadowed banner.

Days later… 

At the Eastern Capital…

The Empress received the helmet with delicate, gloved hands, her painted lips curving with satisfaction.

"So the proud general of Ro bleeds like any other."

Hiral bowed low, his eyes cool. "More than that, Your Radiance. He is contained. Broken in spirit. A prisoner whose silence echoes across Ro."

"Excellent," she purred, setting the helmet on the dais beside her throne. "You have done well, Hiral."

He bowed again, but inside, his mind was already shifting to the next maneuver.

Behind the pleasantries and praise, the vultures stirred—ministers and officials who smelled an opportunity to seize the island for their own gain.

Hiral did not stop them, not yet. He gave them room, allowed them to whisper, plot, and petition the court while he diverted his attention elsewhere.

Let them think he was finished with the island. Let them taste the illusion of opportunity.

****

Kingdom of Ro…

Messages, whispered along trade routes and carried in the hands of discreet envoys, found their way to Ro.

Rumors: the general still lived. That he had not died in the waves, nor perished in enemy prisons, but was being held with dignity. 

That there might be room to negotiate.

The embers of hope were stoked with subtle intent, and the diplomats began to stir.

Hiral's trap was set. If Ro sent diplomats, Hiral would ensure that every negotiation became an entanglement—an exhausting contest between pride and power. 

In the end, the island would become a burden no nation wanted to hold. It would be left alone—autonomous, free, forgotten.

That was the outcome he sought.

****

Alexis sat beneath a mango tree, chewing a fibrous root that tasted of regret and stubbornness.

His stomach growled. He had lost weight, just as expected. His cheekbones had grown sharper, his frame leaner. And yet, his mind had never felt clearer.

The islanders passed by with shy nods, carrying woven baskets and rough tools Alexis had helped improve. He greeted them all, kindly but distantly. His work was gaining their trust, slowly. It wasn't glory, but it was… something.

Still, he burned with a quiet ache.

Not for the lack of meat. Not for the stifling diplomacy he was forced to dance through in secret. Not even for the shame of his troops' withdrawal.

But for Hiral's absence.

"He planned this so perfectly… like I'm a pawn in some grand ruse," Alexis muttered, tossing the root aside. "But I won't be a prisoner forever."

He stood, squinting toward the cliffside temple where the High Priest no doubt observed everything with amusement.

"If I want Hiral to come to me," he murmured, "then I need to stop playing his game… and make him play mine."

His thoughts raced.

Perhaps if he started turning the islanders to his cause. If he gathered influence not as a captive but as a leader. If he made himself indispensable to the people Hiral sought to protect… maybe then—

Hiral would have no choice but to face him.

And when he did… Alexis would be ready.

****

The grand marble corridors of the Eastern Palace echoed with elegant footsteps and venom-laced whispers. 

Each breath of conversation was polished like ivory—and just as cold. 

Behind fluttering silks and jeweled hairpins, danger slid between words, and ambition hung in the air heavier than incense.

Ministers, nobles, and imperial bureaucrats glided through the halls like predators cloaked in perfume. 

They bowed low and smiled wide, exchanged blessings with practiced grace—even as they drafted secret letters in hidden ink, bribed palace scribes, and quietly commissioned artists to paint the island with their family crest already emblazoned upon it.

They all wanted the island.

Some claimed it was vital for strategic control over the narrow sea lanes—a foothold in contested waters that would let them pinch Ro's trade at the throat.

Others argued it was a treasure trove of untouched resources—jade-veined rock, rare timber, spices not yet catalogued.

A handful even wove divine narratives, citing lost scriptures and long-dead prophets who named the island as sacred land returned by fate.

None of them spoke of the islanders.

They were ghosts in this conversation—unimportant. All the ministers saw were borders and spoils, symbols and prizes.

And now, their prize glowed brighter: the rumor that he was still alive.

The Great General of Ro.

The man who had never lost a battle—not even once. Ten campaigns, ten victories, all by the age of eighteen. 

The same general who had turned Ro's fractured militias into a singular steel spine—an army feared across three continents. 

A name that had quieted foreign courts, silenced mercenaries, and toppled rebellions before they ever reached the gates.

And now that same man, Alexis, was said to be captured. Alive. Held by the eastern empire.

And every minister in the palace wanted to be credited for the feat—even if none of them had lifted a finger.

The Empress lounged in her audience hall, seated upon a dais carved of opal and blood jade, her robe a waterfall of lavender and gold thread. 

Behind her, translucent screens painted with imperial dragons flickered in the sun, casting ghostly shadows that coiled like serpents around her throne.

She sat, languid, fingers adorned with gold-tipped claws that clicked softly against the carved armrest.

A eunuch knelt beside her, whispering the latest news as musicians played faintly in the distance.

"…They say the western general is still alive," he murmured. "Captured during the negotiation. Not by blades, but by wit. The islanders whisper that he bowed not under force—but under the brilliance of our general. They claim Ro dares not deny it, for even they cannot explain how such a warrior has gone silent."

The Empress's lacquered nails tapped slowly, rhythmically.

Her lips curved with amusement. "And now my court tears itself apart to claim the glory," she said, voice smooth as plum wine. "I dangle a bone—and they bare their teeth like dogs. Pathetic."

Her eyes glinted as she turned slightly. "They forget it was not their brilliance. They forget they did nothing. Hiral earned the whispers. And yet he seeks no credit."

She sipped delicately from a crystalline cup, the wine glinting like rubies.

"Still, I would have enjoyed watching him humiliate them—my proud jackals. But alas… my dear General Hiral deserves his rest. He's always been too elegant for court sport."

She leaned back with a sigh of mock regret. "Besides, the rumors are entertaining enough. Let the fools fight over illusions. It fills the palace with just enough chaos to keep them predictable."

A silk fan fluttered idly in her hand. 

She was pleased. 

Amused. 

Entire ministries in disarray, whispering her name with reverence because they believed she had broken Ro's unbreakable sword. 

And she hadn't had to lift a finger.

What the Empress did not know—what she would never suspect—was that she herself had already become part of a far deeper game.

A pawn on Hiral's board through narrative.

Because Hiral had planted the story. 

Allowed just enough to slip through the right mouths, designed the whispers that now danced like music through the capital. 

And the Empress, believing herself the orchestrator of it all, drank her wine with quiet arrogance, never realizing that her amusement was Hiral's leverage.

That her boredom was his camouflage.

And that, while she ruled the court, he now ruled the story.

****

Ro Kingdom…

The throne room, once resplendent with banners of victory and echoes of triumph, now felt colder, less like the heart of a kingdom and more like the ribcage of a fading beast. 

Dim light filtered through stained glass, casting fractured mosaics of war and glory across the oaken floor, but none reached the dais where King Rhion sat.

He reclined upon his throne of dark-stained oak, carved with roaring lions and the old sigils of conquest—yet he looked less the lion, and more the man who had once caged them. 

His back was stiff with ceremonial posture, but his hands—knotted and lined—gripped the lion-head armrests not with authority, but with restrained agitation. 

His once-black beard had surrendered to streaks of silver, and behind his golden circlet, his hair thinned, hidden beneath a crown far heavier than it appeared.

Before him, scrolls lay like discarded truths—thick parchment stained with ink and desperation. Pleas from dukes, barons, and old warlords, begging—demanding—the return of Ro's most beloved general.

Their lion. Their undefeated sword.

General Alexis.

The nobles buzzed like hornets before him, each one speaking louder than the last, not to be heard by him—but over each other.

"My lord," cried an aging noble, flushed with rage, "they parade our general like a trophy! Do we bow now? Or later?"

Another barked, red-faced, "If we delay, we embolden the eastern whore to write the terms of our surrender!"

And still another clutched a scroll to his chest like a holy relic. "The people are restless. There are riots in Blackrow. Soldiers deserting from border camps. Alexis was their hope—without him, our name means nothing!"

But King Rhion… merely listened.

And smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

It was the smile of a man who heard thunder in the distance—and took comfort in the storm because he would be the lightning that would strike.

He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded in false weariness. "So eager you all are to kneel at the sound of foreign horns."

The court fell quiet.

Rhion's fingers tapped the armrest, slow and deliberate. "Do you think me blind? Weak? That I do not know what dances behind their smoke and silks?"

None dared answer.

They didn't know what he knew.

Locked in the drawer beneath his private chambers—where not even his queen had walked in months—lay a letter. Not official. Not bound by seal. But unmistakably his.

Alexis' hand. Alexis' mind.

A letter that burned like a live coal in his breast: a brilliant deception cloaked as surrender. Alexis had handed himself over, not in shame, but in strategy. A feigned submission. A serpent burrowing beneath the eastern walls.

It had made Rhion's pulse thunder with pride… and fear.

Because if Alexis could do this—win alone, deceive without council—then Alexis could also become something else.

Something larger than Ro.

Something Rhion could no longer command.

And that, above all, was what the King would not allow.

He could not trust his court. 

Not with this secret. 

Not with Alexis. 

The nobles would gossip. 

The ministers would argue. 

And the Prime Minister—his ever-righteous shadow—would demand oversight, demand transparency, demand inclusion.

So the King played his hand.

A quiet smile curled upon his lips.

"Send a delegation," he announced, his voice smooth as aged wine. "Give the people their theater."

A murmur of relief passed through the crowd.

But Rhion's next words coiled like a dagger sheathed in silk.

"Let the Prime Minister send one of his men as well."

Heads turned.

"My lord?" a wary advisor asked. "Is that… wise? Wouldn't that question the Prime Minister's trust which shows that the Prime Minister believes that the eastern nation is powerful enough to be lent an ear?"

"I insist," Rhion said, tone brooking no argument. "Surely the Prime Minister would be pleased to be part of negotiating Alexis' safety. He's always so devoted."

The smile that followed was thin and sharp.

It was a masterstroke. The Prime Minister—so revered by Alexis, so burdened by moral clarity—would be forced to play Rhion's game.

By sending an envoy, that means that the Prime Minister was indeed more loyal to Alexis than to the crown.

A weak point.

A crack in their quiet alliance.

"He will be forced to admit that he favors Alexis, and Alexis in return would be forced to be more loyal to me to show he does not intend to take the crown," Rhion murmured under his breath, barely audible to the page beside him, "my plan is truly flawless."

No one noticed how his fingers twitched—just once—over the carved lion's mane. No one saw the hunger beneath his regal calm.

Because Rhion did not want Alexis back simply as a general.

He wanted him back as his.

Bent. Bound. Brilliant still—but chained to the throne that made him.

And if Alexis had become a symbol too great for Ro to own… then Rhion would find a way to break the symbol and rebuild it beneath his name.

All while the world watched the decoy—an old scholar stumbling across borders.

Rhion's smile deepened.

****

Hiral stood atop a terraced pavilion overlooking a tranquil koi pond. Yet his mind was far from peaceful.

Scrolls lay open across his desk—coded messages, intercepted letters, diplomatic schedules.

The Ro Kingdom had taken the bait. Two diplomats were coming: one useless, one useful but chained by hidden rules. Perfect.

The ministers here were tearing each other apart in their greedy pursuit of the island, as expected. Let them grow more desperate. Let them weaken each other.

Hiral clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the shimmering water below.

"Soon," he murmured.

As soon as the Ro diplomats arrived, Hiral would re-enter the scene.

He would push, prod, and poison their ambitions until the island became neutral ground.

Autonomous.

Safe.

I wonder what he's doing? More importantly, what does Alexis plan to do? 

Hiral mused while taking a break from his paperwork that Tirin had handed him a few hours ago.

He would not see Alexis. Not yet.

Not until the game demanded it.