The ink bled where Alexis's quill pressed too hard.
He had been scrawling lines across the map, dragging supply routes into chokeholds, forcing the Eastern Nation's army to bend, to shift, to expose themselves.
Every stroke was a blade, every annotation a strike meant for the man who haunted him.
Grief had twisted into fuel.
If he could not silence the storm in his chest, then he would wield it.
He would cut Hiral off, force him into a corner, and in that corner, perhaps—just perhaps—find the confrontation neither of them yet dared to start.
But the tent flaps burst open before he could finish.
"My lord," a breathless adjutant stammered, pale as wax, "news from the east—our vassal land… it's gone. Burned. Massacred. Our banners were found among the dead. Our men—our men did it."
The words clawed down his spine. Alexis's head snapped up, quill dropping from his hand.
"What?" His voice cracked sharp as a blade.
The man swallowed hard. "The noble lord Seth and his cronies, with two commanders—he bribed them. They raided under Eastern colors, slaughtered the villagers. The Eastern recruits tried to shield them, but—" He faltered, lowering his eyes. "They were butchered. And now Seth trumpets it as a victory. Trumpets, feasts, and couriers sent to the cities. The people believe Ro has struck a glorious blow."
Silence.
Then Alexis laughed—low, bitter, disbelieving.
The sound scraped his throat raw.
"Glorious," he repeated, each syllable dripping venom.
He shoved back from his desk, maps scattering. His men froze at the look on his face.
He paced once, twice, then slammed his fists down on the table, rattling goblets and inkpots.
"Idiots. Filthy, grasping idiots." His voice cut like steel. "They have handed Hiral a weapon sharper than any blade."
Already he could see it: Hiral's calm gaze as he's mind churned plans to make sure the recruits would be laid to rest, the way he would turn grief into resolve, how his men would follow him with the quiet certainty of the wronged.
Alexis's chest caved with the thought.
This was blood spilled. His own people's blood, Eastern blood, spilled because of the rot inside his own ranks.
And it would force them—force him—to face Hiral on the battlefield, sooner than either had wanted.
Alexis dragged his hands over his face, a curse muffled against his palms.
His men had done this.
Ro's nobles, Ro's commanders—his own side.
There was no excuse, no turning away.
Every eye would look to him, the grand duke, the great general, the king's nephew that so many already despised, and they would say it was his leash that slipped.
"Get me the names of every soldier who raised a blade in that massacre," he snarled at last, his voice trembling with a dangerous steadiness. "Every commander who signed off on it. And Seth—oh, especially Seth."
"My lord?" one of his aides asked hesitantly.
Alexis's smile was dark, humorless.
"They think to use this to discredit me. They think to bait me. But I'll turn their own treason on their heads. If Ro is to march under my hand, then the army will know where loyalty lies—and where corruption is buried."
He gripped the koi pendant through his tunic until his knuckles whitened, the cool metal biting into his palm.
The pain steadied him.
Hiral's name burned unspoken at the back of his throat.
If only he could whisper it. If only he could believe Hiral might forgive him when steel and flame inevitably met between them.
But forgiveness was not a luxury he could afford.
He turned back to the scattered maps, eyes red, jaw tight.
Hiral…
That name echoed in Alexis's mind.
****
Every banner of Ro flapped beneath the hard sky, soldiers and officers arrayed in rigid lines, the whispers thick enough to choke on.
At the center, Alexis stood—not weary, not broken, but cold and unyielding.
His armor caught the sun like ice, his posture carved from iron.
The koi pendant lay hidden against his chest, but its weight pressed steadily, grounding him even as fury coiled beneath his skin.
Before him knelt Seth and the bribed commanders, stripped of their polished cloaks and crests.
Their wrists were bound, their faces pale and defiant in turns.
Behind them, the air was heavy with the smell of shame, every soldier in the army watching to see how Alexis would strike.
Alexis's voice rang out, clear and sharp, carrying to the furthest edges of the camp.
"These men," he began, pointing with the precision of a blade, "slaughtered a vassal state under Ro's banner. They dressed their crime in the colors of our enemy and paraded themselves as heroes."
A murmur rippled, uncertain, unsettled.
"They did not act under my command. They did not wait for my seal. They killed out of drunken pride and ambition, seeking glory in indiscriminate blood."
His gaze swept the crowd, unblinking, merciless. "And in doing so, they shamed us. Not only this army, but the Kingdom of Ro itself. They stained the King's honor with barbarism. And you all know—our King despises the thought of Ro being called savage."
The crowd shifted, nods following, soldiers whispering. Alexis pressed harder, driving the words like nails.
"What soldier will trust a commander who butchers allies? What land will bend knee to a lord who burns his own vassals? What pride is there in triumph if it is hollow, born of deceit and cowardice?"
He let the silence grow heavy, suffocating.
Then, softly, with deadly clarity: "There is no pride. There is only rot. And rot must be cut away before it poisons the whole."
Gasps broke as he drew his sword—not with fury, but with chilling precision.
The blade gleamed like judgment itself.
One by one, the condemned were named guilty of treason—not merely against their general, but against the King, against the honor of Ro.
Alexis had the officers dragged before the assembly, their protests silenced by the jeers of soldiers who, days ago, would never have dared.
The executions were swift, merciless, their blood soaking the dirt that had once belonged to those they betrayed.
When it was done, Alexis sheathed his blade and turned to the army, his expression unreadable.
"Let it be known," he declared, "that no man—noble or common, commander or recruit—is above justice. If you fight with discipline, with loyalty, you will have my protection and my trust. If you fight for greed, for vanity, if you stain the King's name, you will answer for it."
The silence that followed was not fear.
It was conviction.
Soldiers' shoulders straightened, their eyes sharpened.
Even those who had doubted him could not deny the truth: Alexis was not a pawn of nobles. He was not a mask for rot. He was a blade cutting clean through the mire.
And yet, when he returned to his tent, closing the flaps on the hushed camp, Alexis's hands trembled.
He gripped the koi pendant, dragging a breath through clenched teeth.
It was not enough.
No execution could erase the blood spilled, nor the eyes of the dead recruits that Hiral would mourn. The Eastern Nation would not forget.
And Alexis wasn't sure if Hiral would forgive…
War was already marching toward him, and this time, Alexis knew, it would not be decided by justice or speeches.
It would be decided by blood—and his would be among the first to be tested.