The great gates of the eastern capital loomed high, banners of crimson and obsidian streaming proudly from their towers. As Hiral rode through with his small retinue, the streets erupted in cheers.
Merchants cast flower petals, children waved ribbons, and soldiers saluted with spears raised. To them, he was the shield of Eldara, the savior who had kept Ro's shadow at bay.
But Hiral's heart was not lifted by their cries. Every step of his horse sounded heavy, every cheer an echo of Eldara's broken streets and the haunted faces he had left behind.
By the time he reached the palace, a full procession awaited. Empress Shana herself descended from her throne dais in a rare gesture, arms lifted in graceful welcome.
Her voice carried like silver bells through the gilded hall.
"General Hiral," she declared, "our empire rejoices at your return. You stood in defense of Eldara when Ro sought to defile them. You are proof of our empire's strength and benevolence."
The courtiers applauded, voices rising in hollow unison. Jewel-bright robes shimmered as they bowed and clapped.
Hiral inclined his head, his face arranged into the mask he had perfected. He did not trust his voice—not here.
Instead, he bowed deeply. "Your Majesty's words are more than I deserve. I am grateful for your welcome."
But Empress Shana's eyes, sharp as polished obsidian, noted the subdued reply. Her smile widened, soft yet edged.
"My ministers, let us not let his triumph pass unmarked. General Hiral shall be honored with a banquet worthy of his deeds. His defense is our victory, and our people should know his name as they know their own."
The court erupted in approval.
Already the ministers were murmuring among themselves, voices oily with schemes—alliances to press, favors to trade, introductions to maneuver.
For them, the banquet was a battlefield dressed in silk and wine, and Hiral's fame and supposedly heroic deed were an excuse to cover up their schemes.
Hiral bowed again, though his smile did not reach his eyes.
"Your Majesty is most generous. I shall accept your grace."
He knew better than to refuse. He knew, too, what would follow.
The banquet would be a spectacle. Toasts to his name, the empire's power, and then—inevitably—the Empress's pronouncement. She would assure the world that the Empire would not bow to Ro's declaration of war.
She would frame it as resolve, as protection for the east, and his presence at her side would be the seal of legitimacy.
The thought pressed against his ribs, but Hiral only drew a slow, steady breath. With composure carved from stone, he excused himself.
The corridors of the palace hushed as he walked, the weight of ceremony slipping away with every step. He passed through familiar arches until at last he reached the quiet of his office.
When he opened the door, the scent of parchment, wax, and steel greeted him.
Inside, Tirin was already sprawled on a low chair, boots off, quill in hand as though he owned the room.
Seran, leaning against the far wall with arms crossed, lifted his head the moment Hiral entered. Their faces brightened—relief unhidden, welcome unfeigned.
Hiral allowed himself a small, genuine smile this time. "Good. I needed to see both of you."
"About time," Tirin muttered, though his grin betrayed his joy. "The court'll eat you alive if you let them. Better you come back to the sane side of things."
Seran pushed off the wall, moving closer, steady as ever. "We've been waiting. Whatever storm brews outside, we'll face it here, together."
For the first time since setting foot in the capital, Hiral felt his breath ease. This, at least, was ground he could stand upon—away from silk-tongued ministers and the Empress's knowing smile, and back among the only company he trusted to see the cracks beneath his composure.
****
The quiet hum of the palace office filled with the scratching of Tirin's quill as he worked through notes scattered across the desk. Hiral's eyes, however, were steady and unreadable as he leaned back in his chair, voice low but direct.
"Tirin," he said, breaking the silence, "did you find out which minister ordered the assassin in Eldara?"
Tirin froze mid-scribble. His lips pressed together, and instead of answering, he glanced toward Seran. The silence stretched until Seran exhaled sharply, unfolding his arms.
"It was your father," Seran said, his tone as steady as stone but weighed with reluctant gravity. "Minister Yan."
Hiral's fingers curled on the arm of his chair, but his expression did not waver.
Seran continued, "He somehow caught wind of Eldara's plight faster than anyone in the court. He knew you went to their aid… and that you'd be delayed. So he struck where it would wound deepest. He sent an assassin to sabotage you—to punish you for what he calls your 'unfilial disobedience' and arrogance toward him."
The words hung heavy in the room. Tirin's jaw tightened as he looked anywhere but at Hiral.
But Hiral only gave the faintest shrug, his mouth twitching into something that resembled neither surprise nor grief. "I had an inkling," he murmured. "And it seems I was right."
His voice was flat, calm as winter ice. "It's not the first betrayal from him… and it will not be the last."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned—until Hiral's lips curved into a smile. Not the cool, polished smile he wore at court, nor the weary one he offered his friends.
This smile was sharp, cruel, a glimpse of the shadow he carried within.
Tirin shuddered, the hairs on his arms prickling. "Don't—don't smile like that, Hiral. You look like you're about to—" He cut himself off, but the unease in his voice lingered.
Seran shook his head slowly, though his eyes never left Hiral. "Father scheming against his son that sparks a war, a war that the son was trying to prevent…such a cruel twist of fate," he muttered to himself.
Then louder, firm, "Your father may think himself clever, but he's loosed a fire even he cannot command. Don't let his shadow drive you into darkness."
But Hiral did not answer immediately. His smile remained, faint but edged, as though he were already considering how to carve retribution out of the chaos his father had unleashed.