The gong of the temple bell tolled across the sun-streaked spires of the island's capital, its deep, sonorous rhythm echoing through forest, field, and shoreline.
From cliffside homes and bustling port alleys, islanders turned their heads toward the sacred mountain—the heart of the Temple.
A rare call had been made. An assembly—not for festival, nor for mourning, but for something else entirely.
The elders had been summoned early that morning, shuffling into the great antechamber, robes trailing, faces lined with curiosity and apprehension.
The High Priest, serene as ever, had received them with tea and silence.
"What is this about, if I may?" asked Elder Kuko, her brows pinched.
"An answer," said the High Priest, "to the sentiment you've all spoken of. Concerning the prisoner… turned savior."
At those words, the room stirred.
Many whispered, others frowned.
They had spoken, yes—about Alexis, about what his continued 'imprisonment' meant, about whether the Temple had lost its grip on the islanders' hearts.
"Perhaps the High Priest is ready to reassert himself," thought one elder.
"Or perhaps he's ready to sacrifice Alexis to save face," thought another.
But the High Priest shared no more details. Only instructed them to call everyone.
"Young and old. Those who can walk, those who can row. Let none say they were not given a voice."
****
As the sun rose high, its golden blaze glinted off the temple's domes and spilled across the terraces like fire.
Below, thousands had gathered—shoulder to shoulder, breath held as one.
Merchants abandoned their stalls, fishermen tied off their boats without a second thought, and farmers left their half-tilled fields to climb the paths winding up the cliffs.
All eyes were drawn to the grand stair, where golden banners unfurled in the wind like the wings of some celestial beast.
At the midway platform, built for moments of divine declaration, stood the High Priest—his age-worn frame wrapped in white ceremonial robes trimmed with the sacred azure of divine judgment.
The blue shimmered faintly, as if it remembered the sea from which the dye was born.
To the right side of the terrace, visible yet deliberately distanced, stood Alexis.
He was a portrait of control—straight-backed, feet planted, eyes sharp beneath a composed brow.
His tunic clung damply to his skin under the heat, but the only sign of strain was the subtle tension at his jaw and the rhythm of his pulse, hammering a little too quickly at his throat.
He had been summoned. Not dragged, not disgraced—escorted by temple guards and elders like a guest of honor.
But Alexis knew better.
"This reeks of Hiral," he thought, lips pressed tight. "The High Priest wouldn't orchestrate a public spectacle unless someone else was pulling the strings."
Even so, he remained, spine unbent.
He would not flinch. Not here. Not in front of the people who had come to see whether their hope would be crushed or lifted.
The High Priest stepped forward. The dais caught his voice and carried it across the cliffside, soft yet commanding, like thunder behind silk.
"People of this sacred island," he said, "your presence today does not honor the temple alone—but the strength that binds you together. For it is your voices that have brought this moment to life."
A hush swept over the crowd. Children clutched their parents' sleeves. Elders leaned forward on their staffs.
"You have spoken with fire and gentleness," he continued, "with fear, and with faith. And above all, with unity—for your love of this land… and for the man who has stood with you in hardship."
He turned his palm toward Alexis.
"General Alexis of Ro."
A wave of murmurs rose and broke.
Some clapped with cautious hope.
Others remained motionless. A few bowed their heads as though in silent prayer.
Alexis gave a shallow nod, the barest acknowledgment. But within, his stomach coiled.
"He's setting the stage…"
"Let me guess. A gracious pardon, a gesture of mercy. From the East, of course. Hiral's handwriting all over it."
"I do not speak for power," the High Priest went on, "but I must act with it. And so I bear a decree—not of my own making, but of one carried across oceans. A decree issued from the heart of the Eastern Empire—from Empress Shana herself."
A breathless pause swept the assembly.
"She offers peace. A gesture of goodwill. She has granted an official, unconditional pardon for General Alexis of Ro."
The air cracked open.
Gasps. Cries. Cheers. Silence.
The people surged like a tide meeting jagged stone.
Some wept openly—grateful, overwhelmed.
Others looked about, wary, as if betrayal might leap from the crowd.
Mothers who had watched Alexis shoulder sacks of rice and carry sick children to healers turned their faces away, blinking fast.
The island's rebels—fire-eyed and wind-bitten—watched with folded arms and furrowed brows, their disquiet hidden behind stoicism.
And the merchants? The ones whose dreams lay across trade routes and silver paths?
They smiled. Predators sensing blood in the water.
High above, veiled by lattice shadows and golden drapes, Hiral watched from the balcony.
He stood still, hands clasped lightly behind him. His eyes followed the motion of the crowd—noted every cheer, every stiffened spine, every hesitant step toward hope.
"They don't want to lose him," Hiral thought, gaze narrowing. "Which makes the idea of his departure unbearable. And therefore… unforgettable. The Empress's mercy becomes legend."
His lips twitched upward—not in triumph, but in weary satisfaction.
Then his gaze shifted—and found Alexis.
Rigid. Watching. Struggling not to betray the storm beneath the calm.
And Alexis… was searching.
"Where are you, Hiral…? Come out and own this."
"You used the High Priest like a mouthpiece. Clever. Cowardly."
Their eyes met across distance, across silence, across the gulf of everything unsaid and everything never forgotten.
Locked in that gaze, the crowd faded.
The temple vanished.
For a breath, there was only them—two men shaped by war, bound by duty.
Hiral's expression was unreadable.
But his silence screamed:
"You cannot ignore this. You cannot reject it. For peace. For your people. For everything you've sworn to protect."
Alexis's fists trembled.
His breath came shallow.
And inside, a voice—tired and furious—rose like a tide.
"You did this. You're always three steps ahead. Brilliant, conniving bastard… You made me a symbol before I even had a say."
He closed his eyes, held them shut.
For a second, he wanted to scream.
But when he opened his eyes—
He wasn't angry.
He was resolved.
He stared straight back at Hiral, jaw set, gaze burning.
"You might think you won this round. But don't forget—I too, still have pieces to play."
And Hiral?
He didn't flinch.
But the smile faded just enough to leave a flicker of regret in its place.