The dawn broke pale and cold, the sun little more than a silver disc behind veils of mist. Within Alexis's mansion, the air was already stirring with the sound of steps, paper rustling, and hushed voices.
The household knew: their master had risen before the light, and when Alexis began his work, the entire house moved to his rhythm.
The general sat at his broad oak desk, already clad in dark military garb that bore no ornament but the signet of Ro.
The koi necklace was hidden beneath his tunic, close to his skin, as though locked away where no eye could reach. His face was composed, sharpened, his grief concealed beneath the steel mask of duty.
One after another, his shadows knelt in the dim-lit chamber, their reports swift and precise. Alexis's voice was low but commanding as he issued his first orders of the day.
"Begin immediate surveillance of the eastern alliance," he commanded. "I want detailed accounts of every mobilization, every convoy, every shift in their borders. And above all—watch the Empire. Empress Shana's beloved general Hiral is no fool. If he moves, it will not be wasted motion. His hand will decide how far this fire spreads."
The shadows bowed and slipped back into the darkness, already vanishing to their tasks.
Next came his trusted officers and messengers. Alexis laid parchment across his desk, sketching lines of supply, routes of trade, and choke points where famine or unrest might erupt.
"I want a full assessment of our kingdom's strength," he ordered. "Not just soldiers and steel—bring me the state of our granaries, our markets, our healers. Tell me how the poor are faring, how the merchants whisper, how the nobles hoard. No rot must fester beneath our walls while we march to war."
The officers saluted, each taking a sealed instruction, before scattering into the city and beyond.
When the chamber finally emptied, Alexis leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before his lips.
His eyes did not waver, though the weight behind them grew heavier by the moment. He had set the machine in motion, the gears of war grinding forward with ruthless inevitability.
Yet for him, this was not only duty—it was distraction, shield, and desperate search for an answer hidden in the chaos.
He threw himself into anticipating the movements of friend and foe alike, drawing and redrawing maps until the ink smudged his fingertips.
He planned supply routes, revised contingencies, and calculated both victory and failure. And still, between every line, every scheme, every report, the same thought gnawed at him.
If he could find the right path—just one brilliant maneuver—perhaps he could halt the tide before it consumed them.
But no answer came. Only more maps. More ink. More silence.
So Alexis worked on, burying anguish beneath the endless weight of command, clinging to the fragile hope that somewhere within the storm of plans lay a way forward. A way to save his kingdom—and the one soul he feared to lose most.
****
The royal court of Ro was ablaze that morning with fervor and greed. The great hall echoed with the stamping of boots, the rattle of jeweled chains, the booming laughter of nobles who had already tasted victory in their minds.
Above them all, upon the gilded dais, the King lounged with the posture of a lion satisfied yet restless, his eyes gleaming with hunger for conquest.
Alexis entered with deliberate steps, his presence immediately cooling the heated atmosphere. His navy blue cloak whispered against the marble floor, his expression unreadable, the koi pendant once again hidden beneath his collar.
He bowed, respectful yet restrained.
The King wasted no time.
"Alexis," he declared, voice rich with command. "You will march within the fortnight. The alliance reels in disarray. Our steel is sharper, our forges hotter, our soldiers better trained. Why should Ro linger when the east bleeds opportunity? Launch the attack. Strip them bare. Let no hesitation stall our glory."
The nobles roared in approval, fists pounding tables, voices rising in a feverish chant of war. Some cried vengeance for the King of Eldara, others jeered at the eastern alliance's "treachery," but many wore their rage upon their faces—red, scarred, marred by the failed "beauty treatments" they had heavily invested in.
Their pride itched worse than their wounds, and their thirst for blood was nothing but a salve for humiliation.
Alexis's jaw tightened, his fingers curling at his sides. For a moment, he nearly forgot himself, nearly let the rage spill forth. Rage at the nobles who treated war as a pastime, as vengeance for vanity.
Rage at his uncle, who saw only spoils where Alexis saw graves. For one bitter heartbeat, Alexis longed to tear down the noble class entirely—these jackals feasting on ruin.
But he mastered himself. He breathed once, deep, steady. His gaze swept across the chamber, cold as tempered steel.
"My King," Alexis said, voice even, clipped. "The army may march on command, but the kingdom cannot. Our granaries are stretched thin from the storms, our coffers still bleeding from winter's strain. If we move without care, we will win the battle only to lose the war to hunger."
Some of the nobles scoffed, sneered, but Alexis pressed forward, letting no interruption sway him.
"We need one more month," he declared, "to stabilize our economy, to prepare proper supply chains. Otherwise, our army will march strong, but return in tatters. A kingdom must endure beyond a single victory."
The King's brow furrowed, his lips twisting in displeasure. The chamber tensed as though ready to explode. But before the fire could ignite, the Prime Minister stepped forward, scrolls already in his hands.
With practiced precision, he unfurled the documents—ledgers, harvest reports, and financial projections.
His voice was steady as he recited the kingdom's fragile state, each number a nail in the coffin of haste.
The nobles shifted uneasily, their bravado dampened by the cold weight of fact. The King's glare swept the hall, but even he could not ignore the truth laid bare before him.
At last, with a grunt that was half-growl, half-sigh, the King relented.
"Very well. One month. But no more." His eyes, sharp as blades, cut down to Alexis. "Do not waste it. Ro will not be chained by cowardice."
The hall erupted again, though this time less jubilant, more tense. Alexis bowed low, though the angle of his head did nothing to hide the storm raging behind his eyes.
He had bought them time—one month, a fleeting reprieve. But he knew, with the weight of certainty pressing upon his chest, that the tide of war had only been delayed, not turned.
The great doors of the court closed behind Alexis with a thunderous finality. His footsteps echoed down the long corridor, precise and unhurried, though every fiber in him burned with urgency.
One month.
One month to turn the tide from chaos to something he could wield.
By the time he reached his study, Alexis had already begun issuing orders. His shadows scattered like whispers through the palace and city alike, carrying commands to trusted officers and inventors hidden in workshops.
The army would not spend its reprieve idly. The newest inventions—portable frame shelters of reinforced steel and cloth, designed to withstand storm winds and snow—would be distributed for training.
His soldiers would learn to raise them in minutes, turning barren ground into strongholds. Medics were instructed to master the new sanitation crates and water-filtration canisters that could halve disease among the wounded.
Scouts were introduced to lightweight gadgets—telescopic trackers that pulsed faint signals, allowing patrols to trace enemy movement even in fog or forest.
Alexis himself inspected each innovation, sparring with engineers, adjusting designs, and demanding improvements until the inventions met his standard of war-readiness.
His army would not only march—they would march cleaner, faster, sharper than any force Ro had ever seen.
But steel and tactics were only one front. The other, Alexis knew, lay in the rotting heart of Ro's nobility.
The same nobles who clamored for blood were fat with weakness, their power propped by titles older than their usefulness.
Their lands mismanaged, their peasants starving while they drank spiced wine and complained of itching scars. If they wanted war, then he would give it to them—not on foreign soil, but within the halls of Ro itself.
Late nights with the Prime Minister turned into quiet conspiracies.
Scrolls of land rights, merchant records, tax audits—all carefully combed, every scrap of negligence and corruption cataloged like a blade honed for a killing strike. Together, they wove plans not just for war abroad, but for a purge at home.
Alexis's lips curved, though it was not a smile but the faint hard line of intent.
"They wanted a downfall," he murmured, voice as steady as iron. "Downfall they shall have. Not ours—theirs. Strip them of privilege. Expose their rot. Let them choke on the ruin they begged for."
The Prime Minister met his eyes, the old man's gaze grim but resolute. "It would earn you more enemies, enemies that are closer and more likely to stab you in the back."
Alexis fastened his cloak, his koi pendant cool against his chest, a reminder of what he fought to protect.
"They can try," he said. "Although I doubt they dare to do it themselves, and I can tackle them faster than they can. Besides, better their venom than our kingdom's blood spilled for vanity."
The Prime Minister saw the intense determination in Alexis's eyes so he just sighed and added:
"Just watch your back, Alexis. I did promise to support you but I can't guarantee that I can take all the hits, after all I'm old."
Alexis and the Prime Minister smiled.
And so the month began—a quiet storm within the kingdom. Soldiers drilled with strange new devices, learning to adapt to the future of war.
Scouts tested their tools in shadowed forests. Medics built tents that reeked not of rot but of antiseptic herbs.
All the while, the young general and the Prime Minister sharpened their other weapon: truth turned into knives, schemes into nooses.
Every night, Alexis poured himself into maps, reports, ledgers, and coded messages. Every morning, he buried anguish behind command. His enemies wanted to see him falter.
But he would meet their demands on his own terms, and when the reckoning came, it would not be the eastern alliance bleeding first—it would be Ro's own parasites, stripped bare under the weight of his resolve.