The capital of Pojin, despite its grand title, was a small city of ten villages nestled within the eastern wasteland of Hmagol, surrounded by high, imposing mountains and rocky, unforgiving terrain: an extension of Whitefang Peak.
Crown Prince Bastsaikhan sat in his private study. He was wheelchair-bound, a physical limitation that now felt cruelly amplified by the political paralysis gripping him. His chair was positioned near a window, but he rarely looked at the rugged, beautiful view. Instead, he watched the courtyards below, which were conspicuously empty save for the meticulous patrols of the Imperial Guard—soldiers whose faces were unknown to him, their loyalty clearly belonging to the Council appointed by his father, Batukhan, the king of Hmagol.
Crown Prince Bastsaikhan sat in his private study, his expression a tight mask. His face, usually amiable and open with a bright smile in front of everyone, even to those who politically verbally assaulted him, now barely concealed the despised, restrained fury and a deep sense of helplessness buried in his heart. His physical inability to ride out and take command only intensified his political impotence in the court, a constant, stinging reminder of his limitations.
There were more than once he thought of ending his miserable life, but with each attempt, the plan had always failed, as his mother, the Queen, either had a miscarriage or a stillbirth. On the night when his mother was giving birth to the special child that everyone predicted was born to be the next king of Hmagol, he had already prepared everything: he had cleaned himself, was wearing his favorite robe, and was holding the bottle of poison in his hand, waiting for the signal—the gong's confirmation—that his mother had given birth to his brother. But the confirmation signal never came, as the gong only rang once, signifying a difficult birth.
Therefore, as much as he hated living and knew in his heart that he would never be a great king like his father and his grandfathers without royal generals and court ministers loyal to him, he decided to have Chinua pave the way for him. That decision gave him a new purpose of life that was worth living for, a purpose fueled by a deep, cold ambition hidden beneath his crippled state.
Just then, his trusted advisor, a scholar named Xen, walked into the room. Xen stood by the door, watching him for a while with sympathetic concern before deciding to approach.
"What is it?" Bastsaikhan said, his voice low, edged with a sharp resentment that trembled slightly as he gripped the wheel of his chair and turned around. "Did Chief Behrouz arrive?"
"Your Highness, the person arrived is not Chief Behrouz," Xen answered, slightly bowing his head. "Instead, it is her Royal Consort Yargui and Minister Esen. They are waiting for you in the meeting hall."
"Are there any news from Ntsua-Ntu?" Bastsaikhan asked, his focus immediately shifting back to the political center of Hmagol, his voice tinged with the deep anxiety of a leader starved of reliable information.
"Our people have not sent any message regarding any news or change," Xen said. "The last news we received was that the Eastern General had taken Nue-Li City and His Majesty had awarded Her Highness Nue-Li City." Xen grabbed the handles on the wheelchair, his touch gentle yet firm, and began pushing Bastsaikhan out of the room towards the meeting hall, crossing the quiet training ground.
"She has done great over the years," Bastsaikhan said, a flicker of genuine pride softening his gaze. "Now that she had taken over Nue-Li City, she is as fierce as any general before her." He let out a soft chuckle, a rare sound. "Xen, back then, I coaxed her that she will be the rarest beauty in Hmagol; it seems that my coaxing words have become true."
"I still remember Her Highness came crying and begging you to remove all the maids in her courtyard," Xen said, a small, knowing smile touching his lips as he remembered the past events. "Her Highness is truly a history-breaker of the common norms."
The small meeting hall of the Eastern Military Camp was no more than a small room containing two rows of ten simple wooden chairs. At the head stood a larger chair, distinguished by a nicely cushioned seat of black bear fur, intended for the general.
Although Bastsaikhan was the temporary general in Chinua's place, unlike others, he had never sat on the general's chair. He would have Xen wheel him inside with each meeting, and then have his chair placed directly before the captains who were left behind. This posture—seated lower than the captains yet squarely facing them—was a subtle statement of humility and direct engagement, acknowledging his temporary status and physical limitations without diminishing his authority.
As he approached, he saw that Yargui and Esen were seated inside in the first two chairs. Xen pushed the wheelchair close enough to the father and daughter and gently parked it.
"Minister Esen," Bastsaikhan greeted with a bright, politician's smile, expertly masking the internal wariness he felt. "What brings you here?"
Esen was about to stand and properly greet Bastsaikhan, but he was quickly stopped by the Prince's gesture. Esen smiled faintly and said, "I simply just following Yargui to visit Your Highness."
Yargui smiled sweetly and said, "My lord, it's almost New Year's, so I will be here with you over the winter, and father will send someone to pick me up in the spring."
Bastsaikhan, though her fiancé, felt this casual approach was highly inappropriate since they had not yet been formally wed. He was hesitating, trying to figure out the most polite way to refuse such an invitation, when Esen finally broke the silence.
"Sir Xen, would you be kind enough to show my daughter around and make her familiar with the camp? I have some words from His Majesty to say privately with His Highness," Esen said, looking meaningfully at Xen.
Xen nodded, his face impassive, and turned to Yargui. "My lady, please follow me," he said.
"Then I will meet you later," Yargui said with a smile, gracefully getting up and walking out of the meeting hall with Xen.
Esen stood up, walked to the door, looked both ways to make sure that there was no one nearby before he closed the door with a quiet click and walked back to sit on his seat. He turned to Bastsaikhan, his face now etched with genuine worry.
"Your Highness," Esen began. "You might think that sending Yargui here is inappropriate since the two of you have not gone through the wedding, but I have my reason."
"What is your reason?" Bastsaikhan asked, his previous artificial smile completely gone, replaced by a look of intense focus.
"There are a lot of changes in Ntsua-Ntu lately," Esen said, his voice dropping.
"Like what?" Bastsaikhan pressed.
"His Majesty's health had decline significantly. Also, last month, Governor Gerel had returned to Ntsua-Ntu. Since his return, the royal guards inside the palace have been recently replaced with new ones," Esen said with a heavy heart. "I have information that all of the maids and servants in the East Palace have been replaced by Concubine Ehri's people, not just that, but many maids and servants in His Majesty's courtyards have also been changed."
Bastsaikhan thought deeply, the pieces clicking into a terrifying pattern. He came to the conclusion that if Ehri was replacing servants and maids and Gerel was back in Ntsua-Ntu, it meant only two things: Gerel was there to block Chinua's proposal about Nue-Li City or forcing Batukhan to remove him as the crown prince and reappoint Dzhambul, his nephew, as the new crown prince. But then, the most terrifying realization hit him: Gerel was there to overthrow Batukhan and take the throne for himself, using Dzhambul as a pawn.
"Minister Esen," Bastsaikhan said worriedly, pushing himself forward in his chair. "You must leave right away and hurry up to the palace. Bring a message to the Royal Father and the Royal Mother that the Sumyaa clan is making a move to overthrow the Royal Father."
Esen's face went instantly pale with shock. "Your Highness, this is not an accusation you can easily make against Governor Gerel without evidence," he whispered urgently, worried that their conversation would be overheard.
"I am not accusing; I am concluding. With all the information you provided, this is the most likely reason. Other than the Mongke, the Sumyaa is the second largest clan within Hmagol. Forty percent of court ministers bear the Sumyaa surname. Although we don't have concrete evidence to support my theory, it's better to prepare if such a scenario were to unfold."
"You do have a point," Esen conceded, shaking his head with deep anxiety. "I will go back right away. Regarding Yargui..."
Bastsaikhan's decision was firm. "She is safer here with me than in the capital at this point."
"Then I will leave her in your care," Esen said, and he got up from his seat.
"Minister," Bastsaikhan said, meeting Esen's gaze. "For what you can see, who in the court is on our side?"
Esen sighed with a heavy heart and said, "I am certainly on your side. Minister Misheel, Minister Enkhjin, and Minister Bolor. There are many old ministers who are loyal to His Majesty, and twenty ministers in the royal courts are aligned with the Second Prince. As for Minister Tarkhan, you know him—he is on the winning side; the old fool has never taken a genuine stance."
"Minister Esen, if nothing happens, then it is a great relief. But if there is a change in the palace, please help bring the Royal Mother out of the palace," Bastsaikhan pleaded, a desperate, raw plea for his mother's safety.
Esen gently bowed and said, "I will try my best to live up to Your Highness's request." He took two steps back, walked to the door, and opened it. "Your Highness, please be careful during these troubled times. As long as you are still breathing, there is nothing you cannot achieve."
Bastsaikhan turned his wheelchair around to face Esen's back. "Thank you for your kind words, Minister Esen."
He watched Esen bow his head, and the old minister walked out of the meeting hall, leaving him alone in the empty room. He was left with his worries and thoughts hanging in the air, wondering what step he should take to warn Chinua of the information he had received. Then he realized that in his small circle, there were not many people whom he could trust. He looked down at his useless legs and then the shadow beside him. He chuckled bitterly.
"The quiet room, a cold, hard shell, No voice to break the lonely spell. I seek a hand, a heart to trust, But find just silence, turning dust.
The only friend who walks with me, Across the floor, for all to see, is that dark shape the light has thrown, My faithful shadow, and my own.
A bitter draft sighs through the years, and no one knows these secret tears. Just me, and this dim, mirrored pain, A soul poured out in wind and rain."