The war council chamber crackled with unease, every commander's eye drawn to Alexis as he entered.
His presence alone seemed to still the whispers; the aura he carried was ironbound, unshakable, the weight of command pressing down on every man present.
Alexis did not sit. He stood before them, voice carrying like thunder:
"The Eastern Nation has finally declared its clear intent for blood."
His gaze swept the room, each word cutting sharp and certain.
"Their silence is broken, their vow plain. They come for blood. And we—" his hand slammed against the table, the map quivering under his palm—"we will not be caught dull, or fractured."
No one dared breathe.
He began issuing orders, his tone clipped, mercilessly clear.
"Every cohort will double its drills. Training hours—strict. No leniency. Soldiers who falter will be replaced. Supplies—we streamline. No wasted effort, no indulgence. Every loaf, every arrow, every ration accounted for. What supply chains we have left must be protected, made efficient. We cannot afford delay, we cannot afford waste."
His eyes raked over the room, pinning nobles and veterans alike.
"If any man here believes complacency will carry us through, let him leave now. Only discipline will."
The weight of his words crushed hesitation, leaving nothing but grim resolve in their wake.
When the council finally broke, the commanders bowed low, their voices ringing with renewed conviction:
"For Ro. For General Alexis."
The mask held until the last of them had gone.
Only then, in the silence of his tent, did the facade collapse.
Alexis sank onto the edge of his cot, his hands trembling as he braced against his knees.
The tent felt too small, the air too thin.
He could still see Hiral in his mind's eye—cold, sharp, unflinching. That look of quiet condemnation seared deeper than any blade.
He hates me.
The thought strangled him, coiling tighter with each breath.
He hates me. And no matter what I do, nothing can turn it back.
The fear hollowed his chest, left him suffocating on the silence.
His hand reached instinctively for the chain around his neck.
The koi pendant—warm from his skin, solid against his palm.
He gripped it until his knuckles blanched, his breath staggering.
The trembling stilled, just enough.
The anchor held. For now.
But as he closed his eyes, the weight of Hiral's gaze remained, a shadow he could not shake.
The days that followed were written in blood.
Alexis no longer entertained illusions of diplomacy—he knew now the battlefield would decide the fate of nations.
If once he had hoped to preserve, to restrain, the slaughter at the vassal state had burned that hope from him.
Negotiation is dead. Hiral sees only blood. And so must I.
The clashes between Ro and the Eastern Nation grew more vicious.
Eastern raiding parties no longer struck blindly—they aimed for the commanders, severing the head from each engagement with ruthless precision.
Ro's ranks faltered more than once, men trapped in their own confusion as their leaders fell, cut down by Eastern blades.
In answer, Alexis turned the iron of Ro's army sharper, harder.
Where the Eastern Nation struck swift, he answered with fire. Artillery groaned across the fields, the roar of ballistae and heavier engines shaking the air.
Weapons once used sparingly now became constant—flamethrowers that drenched lines in burning pitch, siege engines adapted to rip into formations, not fortresses.
The battlefield shifted. Green fields were left far behind; their war carved itself into barren plains and broken ground, where only dust and bone remained.
Open, desolate stretches became killing grounds.
From his command tent, Alexis hunched over maps, lines of ink smeared where his hand pressed too hard.
His mind ran not with hesitation but calculation.
"If they take to the ridges," he muttered to his captains, "we flood them with incendiary bolts. If they pull their cavalry wide, we collapse the center with chained maces. Break them fast. Break them hard. They must feel that resistance is hopeless."
His eyes gleamed not with cruelty, but with urgency.
"The sooner they fall, the sooner the war ends."
And the fewer will die. Ours and theirs…
No one dared question the desperation beneath his logic.
The men saw only the resolve of their general—unyielding, brilliant, merciless.
Yet when the campfire smoke rose at night, Alexis lingered in silence, eyes fixed on the horizon.
In his chest, strategy and grief clashed endlessly.
Every order he gave to hasten the war's end was also an attempt, however futile, to shorten the distance back to Hiral's forgiveness.
He clutched the koi pendant often, pressing it against his lips as if it could speak what words could not:
I will end this war quickly. I will find a way back to you. Even if it takes every weapon I command.
Yet…
The army of Ro was bleeding from within.
Too many commanders had fallen to Eastern ambushes.
Entire wings of the army stood leaderless, their cohesion trembling like glass on the verge of shattering.
Soldiers could fight, but without steady hands guiding them, they broke easily under pressure.
Alexis bore the weight of every fracture.
He was everywhere.
One day at the front line, cutting down hesitation with sheer presence; the next in the shadows of his own tent, bending merchants to his will with the promise of Ro's gold and the threat of Ro's steel.
Couriers rode themselves ragged delivering orders written in his unsteady hand.
By nightfall, when other men slept, Alexis studied blueprints, refining weapons that would bleed the Eastern Nation dry.
Crossbows with piercing bolts that could pierce through shields.
Portable flame canisters that squads could carry into the fray. Even the siege engines were modified—faster reloads, deadlier payloads.
And behind it all, his shadows moved.
Spies, cutthroats, and loyal agents Alex had nurtured long before the war began.
They handled the matters he could not—secret contracts with merchants bold enough to smuggle supplies past Eastern blockades, quiet executions of Ro's own who spoke too freely.
Every whisper, every coin, every blade was bent to prolong the army's strength.
Yet he knew.
This is what Hiral wants.
Every move, every innovation, every risk—Alexis could almost feel Hiral's eyes on him, pushing him into the open. Forcing him to show every weapon, every strategy.
To bare Ro's true measure.
And so Alexis trained his closest aides harder, faster.
They learned to read his shorthand codes, to carry his voice into the ranks, to execute his plans without hesitation.
With each success, he bought himself a sliver of breath—enough to keep up, to prepare countermeasures, to keep the illusion that Ro was still a blade unbroken.
But the end of the war… it was still far. Too far.
Every step forward seemed only to sharpen the knives waiting in the shadows.
And so Alexis pushed harder.
Less sleep.
More risks.
He burned the candle from both ends and in the middle besides, because hesitation meant death—not just for him, but for the thousands who looked to him as the only pillar left standing.
At night, when even the shadows rested, Alexis whispered into the dark, his fingers curled around the koi pendant.
Let it end. Let me do what must be done, no matter the cost. Just let me reach the end before I collapse.