The King's chamber, immense and usually echoing with authority, suddenly shrunk under the weight of Dzhambul's betrayal, becoming suffocatingly small. His hand still trembled, not from the simple physical rage of a usurper, but from the searing pain of decades of emotional neglect. Dzhambul's breath hitched, the sound ragged and desperate in the dead silence. His eyes—once sharp with cold ambition—were now glazed with unshed, bitter tears, reflecting the cold, deadly sheen of the blade he held.
"Just sign your name, Father," Dzhambul pleaded, the word Father sounding like an accusation that choked him. "Do not force me to do the unthinkable. Do not make me prove your lack of faith was wrong!"
Batukhan's gaze, though framed by a face weakened by illness, was intensely focused on Dzhambul's. Instead of fear, a profound pity settled in his expression. His voice was calm and steady, stripped of all earthly worry. "I have lived my life with thousands of swords always pointing at me every day, and yet I do not fear. Why should I fear just a single sword pointing at me now?"
Dzhambul's jaw tightened, a spasm of fury crossing his face. He pressed the sword slightly closer, the cold tip of the steel kissing Batukhan's laryngeal prominence.
"I really want to know which is more important: the lives of your beloved Queen, your Crown Prince, your beloved Princess, or this decree," Dzhambul hissed, his control fraying entirely. "We still have time, you and I, but I won't say the same for them. Father..." The last remnants of sadness were burned away, leaving only corrosive rage. "I have left my instructions very clear to my men: if I have not walked out from here with your name on that decree, the first to be executed would be your Queen, then your Princess, and your Crown Prince. But you, my father, you will live and watch me thrive."
"You will never thrive," Batukhan declared sharply, a flicker of the old King's iron will return. "People with your ambition will only be doomed to failure. Do you think that because my health is declining, you can pair up with your maternal uncle and steal the kingdom?"
"Yes, I do!" Dzhambul screamed, his composure finally shattering. "I've worked so hard for this golden chair; therefore it should belong to me, not some cripple who can't even take one step on his own!" His left hand slammed onto the table with devastating force, sending the ink dish skittering and spilling the dark fluid across the parchment. "NOW! PUT YOUR NAME ON THAT DECREE!"
Batukhan began coughing heavily, a deep, rattling sound that shook his frail frame. He wheezed, struggling to draw a breath. When the fit subsided, he gently wiped away the slick, tell-tale blood from the corner of his mouth.
He looked up at Dzhambul, and the profound sadness returned—grief for the proud son he had lost. He glanced out and saw the shadows of the immense guard detail outside; they were too numerous to be Dzhambul's patrol, meaning the loyalists had succeeded.
A faint, victorious smile touched Batukhan's lips. "You want the throne? Then it's yours, but I will not give it to you. If you want it, you must claim it."
"You..." Dzhambul muttered through violently gritted teeth; his face contorted in disbelief and frustration.
"But as your father, I must warn you," Batukhan continued, his voice growing strangely distant and prophetic. "The moment you announce yourself as King, your days will be numbered, and there is no place in this land you can hide for safety."
"I am not afraid of your threats," Dzhambul retorted, trembling with the effort of restraint.
Batukhan said softly, sadly, "A son should never have his hands stained with his father's own blood." He lowered his eyes to the blood-spotted decree on the table, then looked up at Dzhambul with a pair of chilling, resolute eyes. "You better run, my son, because the true Alpha Wolf of Hmagol will never leave you."
With a sudden, powerful lunge, Batukhan surged forward. Dzhambul's sword, already pressed against his throat, plunged instantly into the King's neck. But it was not Dzhambul's intent that killed him; Batukhan had driven himself onto the blade, silting his own throat in the act of ultimate political and paternal sacrifice. He fell forward, the thick, hot blood gushing from his wound and flowing over the parchment, signing the decree with his life's blood instead of his name. His eyes turned one last time, meeting the terrified gaze of Eunuch Tong stepping in through the side door with his bowl of medicine.
With blood bubbling from his mouth, he managed to gargle the single word: "Run..." Then, his eyes slowly closed, and he died across the table, denying Dzhambul the legitimacy he craved.
Shaking violently, his face pale and slick with sweat, Dzhambul stood frozen, the bloodied sword still clutched in his hand. Horror and victory warred on his face.
Eunuch Tong let the bowl of medicine crash to the floor, the ceramic shattering. He slowly backed away in sheer terror through the side door, then turned and bolted into the hallway.
The sound of the ceramic shattering snapped Dzhambul back to reality. He had a witness. He immediately ran out through the side door and saw the small figure of the Eunuch running away in the distance.
"Guards!" Dzhambul roared, his voice booming with forced authority and panic. "That is the assassin who just assassinated the King! Catch him!"
Inside Chinua's abandoned courtyard, there were no lanterns to light up the pathway; the only light came from a small, distant room to the far right. The courtyard was quiet, thick with neglect.
"Go behind the house on the left," Batsaikhan whispered, his voice still weak but authoritative from his perch on Mönkhbat's back. "The pond by the wall will lead into the river on the southeast side of the palace. Mönkhbat, you must leave here and return to the South."
"I am here to get you out, and I intend to do so," Mönkhbat insisted, ignoring the plea.
"Let's be real," Batsaikhan countered, looking down at his skinny, weak legs, stained with blood and dirt. "I can't swim, nor can I hold my breath long enough. I will only drown you and your men."
"General," Buqa interjected, stepping forward. "I will swim with the Crown Prince on my back. Before moving to Anpol City, I was a fisherman. I lived by the river and have swum all my life."
"Let's do it," Mönkhbat said, making his final decision. "We don't have much time before Dzhambul and his men arrive here."
Mönkhbat and the others quickly removed their heavy armor and jumped into the dark, cold pond. Mönkhbat was the first to dive in, followed by Dolgoon.
"Your Highness, hold me tight, and whatever you do, do not let go," Buqa instructed the prince.
"Soldier, what's your name?" Batsaikhan asked.
"Buqa," Buqa replied. He took a deep, final breath, signaling Batsaikhan to do the same, and then dove deep into the pond, followed by Naksh.
Meanwhile, far from the blood-soaked floors of the palace, Chinua and Hye raced through the thick darkness, their horses' hooves thundering against the dry earth as they headed straight toward the military gate. They were pushing the beasts to their limits, desperate to break through the perimeter before the full alarm could reach the camp.
However, they were still yards away from the gate when a heavy, concealed trip-rope snapped taut across the path. The lead horse was knocked violently to the ground with a terrified neigh, causing the riders to be sent tumbling from the horse's back.
Chinua and Hye hit the dirt hard, rolling through the dust and dead grass. Before they could even catch their breath or shake off the disorientation of the fall, they found themselves surrounded. A circle of soldiers stepped out from the shadows of the barracks, their weapons drawn and the cold moonlight reflecting off the tips of their spears.
Captain Yi stepped forward, the moonlight catching the grim set of his jaw. He didn't look pleased to be there, but his duty was clear.
"The Second Prince was right to suspect you wouldn't stay put, General," Captain Yi said, his voice echoing in the cold night air. "He warned us that your loyalty to the Crown might outweigh your common sense."
Chinua slowly pushed herself up from the ground, her hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of the sword she had scavenged earlier. Beside her, Hye scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting around the circle of steel, looking for the weakest link in their formation.
"Loyalty to the Crown is exactly why I'm leaving, Captain," Chinua retorted, her voice low and dangerous. "The question is, who do you think is currently wearing it?"
"Prince Dzhambul made his order clear: as long as you are breathing and able to show up in court alive, it doesn't matter what state you are in," Yi said, his voice cold and devoid of its usual respect. He raised his hand, signaling the perimeter to close in. "Soldiers! Capture Her Highness at all costs, as long as her life is not in danger!"
The circle of steel tightened. The soldiers, men who had once looked to Chinua as their commander, moved with a mix of hesitation and grim determination. They knew her skill, but the fear of Dzhambul's wrath outweighed their old loyalties.
Chinua stood her ground, her feet planted firmly in the dirt, the scavenged sword held low at her side. She looked at the faces of the men she had trained. "You hear him, men?" she called out, her voice projecting with the authority of a General. "He says my life isn't in danger, yet he treats me like a dog to be caged. Is this the Hmagol you swore to protect? A kingdom ruled by threats and shadows?"
"Don't listen to her!" Yi barked. "Move in!"
The first three soldiers lunged simultaneously. Chinua didn't retreat; she pivoted, the blade in her hand whistling through the air. She didn't aim for throats or hearts—true to her word, she fought to disable. With a series of lightning-fast strikes, she used the pommel of her sword to shatter a jaw and the flat of the blade to crack a knee, sending two men sprawling into the dust.
Hye, however, was in a different kind of struggle. Unlike the General, he was no combatant. As a spear tip thrust toward his chest, he yelped, twisting his body in a desperate, clumsy arch to avoid the steel. He was fast, fueled by pure panic, scrambling on all fours and diving between the legs of a soldier to avoid a reaching hand.
"Chinua! Help!" Hye scrambled back as two guards tried to corner him like a panicked rabbit. He didn't know how to throw a punch or parry a blade; he could only duck, roll, and slide through the dirt, narrowly escaping fingers that grazed his robes. He was a master of evasion, but he was trapped in a circle that was getting smaller by the second.
"Stay behind me, Hye!" Chinua shouted, stepping backward to shield him, her sword clashing against two spears at once.
Captain Yi saw his opening. While Chinua was distracted trying to keep the frantic Hye from being trampled or seized, Yi drew his own blade. He stepped forward, aiming a precise, heavy strike at Chinua's flank, intending to end her resistance while she was anchored by her non-combatant companion.
Captain Yi was a seasoned veteran, and he knew that in a fair fight, Chinua was his superior. He didn't seek a clean duel; he sought a victory. He began trading heavy blows with her, the ring of steel on steel echoing sharply through the camp. As Yi and his men pressed their combined assault, Chinua became a wall of iron, her blade moving in a frantic, brilliant blur to block their strikes while her body shielded the trembling Hye.
Yi's eyes narrowed, tracking her movements. He saw the way she overextended to keep Hye out of reach of a spear. Instead of rushing at Chinua again, Yi pivoted mid-strike and thrust his sword straight at Hye's chest.
"No!" Chinua cried.
Without a second thought, she threw her weight into Hye, shoving him violently out of the path of the blade. Hye tumbled to the ground, safe but breathless. In that split second, Chinua's defense was gone. Yi's sword drove deep into her right shoulder, the steel piercing through the toughened leather of her tunic and sinking into an old, jagged scar.
A sharp, guttural grunt of agony escaped Chinua's lips as the cold metal bit into her muscle. The world blurred for a moment, but her warrior's instinct remained. Before Yi could twist the blade, Chinua lashed out with her boot, kicking Yi squarely in the abdomen with bone-shattering force.
The blow sent the captain staggering back, his breath escaping in a wheeze as he was ripped away, his sword pulling out of her shoulder with a sickening slide. Chinua slumped for a second, her face turning ashen as hot blood began gushing from the wound, staining her sleeve a dark, terrifying crimson.
Hye scrambled toward her on his knees, his face pale with horror. "Chinua! Your shoulder—"
"Get up, Hye," she hissed through gritted teeth, her hand clutching the wound to stem the flow. She looked up at the circle of soldiers, her eyes burning with a lethal, desperate light.
The air in the military camp turned frigid as the smell of fresh blood mingled with the dust of the corral. Chinua stood swaying slightly, her left hand clamped over her shoulder, but her right hand held the scavenged sword with a terrifying, iron-clad steadiness.
Captain Yi clutched his own abdomen, his face pale from the force of Chinua's kick. He took a staggering step toward her, his voice strained as he tried to maintain his composure. "General," he pleaded, the old respect flickering in his eyes despite the orders he carried. "Stand down. You are badly wounded. Let our doctor treat you before you bleed out."
"Stand down?" Chinua spat the words like venom, her teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. "I, Chinua, will do no such thing."
The pain in her shoulder was a white-hot scream, radiating through her chest, but her will was a far greater force. She raised her sword, the tip pointing directly at Yi's throat. Her eyes, usually warm and calculated, were now glazed with an icy, lethal light that paralyzed the soldiers surrounding her.
"No more mercy," she declared, her voice resonating with the power that had led these men into a dozen victories. "If you do not want to die, stand down."