The steady, hollow rhythm of hooves on the dirt road echoed softly through the trees. A horse-bell chimed in the cool air, its silver ring mingling with the melodic chirping of birds and the restless rustle of leaves as an eastern wind swept toward the west. Occasionally, the stallion tossed its head, a questioning whinny escaping its throat—but there was no tug on the reins to guide him.
Left to his own instinct, the horse simply plodded forward, his harness rattling with every heavy step. He moved with a slow, burdened gait toward the column of black smoke staining the horizon, oblivious to the crimson staining his own flanks. There, slumped across the saddle in a state of deathly silence, lay a teenager—bleeding, unconscious, and drifting toward an unknown fate.
The horse continued its steady plod until the towering stone of the Eastern Gate of Ntsua-Ntu rose to meet the sky. Seeing the guards ahead, the animal felt a ripple of ease. The familiar colors of their tunics and the glint of their armor were sights he knew well.
Safe at last, the stallion came to a halt. He lowered his weary head, the silver bell giving one final, muted jingle as he began to graze on the long grass at the foot of the wall. He stood there, peaceful and content, while the bleeding teenager remained slumped across his back—a silent, crimson passenger at the city's very doorstep.
The men atop the ramparts leaned over the stone, squinting through the hazy light. On the horse's back, two arrow shafts protruded from the teenager's upper back, swaying slightly with every movement of the animal.
"Who's that?" one guard muttered, glancing at his comrade, his voice dropping an octave.
"Is he one of ours?" the other asked, his hand tightening on his spear. "Let's find out."
One man scrambled down the stone stairs, his boots skidding on the dust. He burst into a makeshift tent where Azad, their young chief, sat in the shadows, a jar of wine halfway to his lips.
"Azad!" the man gasped.
Azad set the jar down with a heavy, ominous thud. "What now?"
"A wounded man. Just outside."
"One?" Azad's brow furrowed.
"One," the man confirmed. "We think he's one of us."
Azad stayed silent for a beat. The war for the throne was over. The citizens had returned. In this corner of Hmagol, the soil hadn't tasted blood in since the beginning of the civil war. "Open the postern gate," Azad commanded. "Bring the horse in."
The man hurried to the heavy iron door, unbarring it with a frantic clatter. He stepped out and reached for the horse's lead, patting the animal's neck to calm it. But as he looked up into the rider's face, the color drained from his own skin.
"Azad!" he screamed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Azad, get out here!"
Inside the tent, Azad's patience snapped. He squeezed the wine jar until his knuckles turned white, then hurled it against the ground. Shards of clay flew as he stormed out into the daylight. "What!"
"It's Möndör!" the man cried, his voice cracking with panic. "Naksh's boy!"
"Möndör?" Azad whispered. The world seemed to slow down. He sprinted toward the gate as the guards led the horse into the courtyard. "Is he alive? Talk to me!"
The guard didn't answer. His eyes were wide, fixed on the blood-soaked leather of the saddle. Azad reached the boy and cradled his face, his fingers trembling—the hands of a warrior suddenly made clumsy by fear. He slapped the teen's cheek—a desperate, gentle rhythm.
"Möndör. Möndör, look at me!"
The boy's eyelids fluttered, a sliver of hazel appearing for a second—glazed and distant—before slipping away.
"He's alive! Get the physician!" Azad roared, his voice cracking. He leaned closer to the boy's dry, cracked lips, his own breath bated. "Möndör, tell me. What happened?"
"Chinua..." the boy's voice was a ghost of a sound, a rattling breath from a punctured lung. "Chinua... Pojin... Chief..."
"What happened in Pojin?" Azad pressed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"It's gone..." Möndör's head fell limp. The last of his strength vanished into the dirt of the courtyard.
"Möndör! No! You don't die on me, kid!" Azad screamed, shaking the boy's shoulders as the silence of the courtyard turned heavy with the scent of iron and smoke.
Inside the stone-walled study at the end of the quiet street, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the low hum of strategy. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows against the walls as Chinua sat at the head of the table, flanked by Hye and her seven commanders. The map of Hmagol lay sprawled between them, marked with the positions of an army that was supposed to be at rest.
"I am sending Azad's company back to Pojin," Chinua stated, her eyes fixed on the map. "The Payapasians promised peace, but—"
"—but a foreign king's promise is just empty air between his teeth," Hye interrupted, leaning back with a cynical grace. He watched the steam rise from his tea, his expression unreadable.
Drystan smirked, leaning forward into the light. "You don't trust them, then?"
Hye's gaze shifted to Drystan, a cold curve touching the corner of his mouth. "I only trust results."
"So," Drystan teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "I suppose you don't trust us either?"
"Out of everyone here, you should be the last to ask," Hye shot back, his eyes dancing with a mock disappointment. "You once held me hostage for a single drink of water. My brilliant mind, traded for a sip. How cheap." He turned toward Chinua with a dramatic, heavy sigh. "I demand a two hundred percent raise in the next pay period."
The room erupted into laughter. For a brief, warm moment, they weren't killers or revolutionaries; they were friends sharing a joke in the safety of their victory. But the laughter was cut short, severed by a sound that didn't belong in the quiet of the evening.
The heavy oak door slammed open, the wood groaning against the stone wall. A soldier stumbled in, his lungs burning, his chest heaving so violently he couldn't find his voice. He was covered in the dust of a hard ride, his face a mask of terror.
"Soldier!" Zhi snapped, his hand instinctively moving toward his hilt as he stood. "Have you forgotten how to announce yourself?"
The messenger ignored the rebuke, his eyes darting frantically across the room until they landed on Naksh, then finally on Chinua. "Chinua... it's Möndör."
The name acted like a physical blow. The air seemed to leave the room. Naksh and Jeet stood up in unison, the scraping of their chairs against the floor sounding like a scream.
"What of my son?" Naksh asked. His voice was no longer that of a commander; it was a low, vibrating growl—thick with a paternal instinct that was more terrifying than any drawn blade.
"Captain Naksh... your son is with Azad. The physician is with him now." The soldier's voice cracked as he met the father's eyes, unable to look away from the agony he saw there.
"Is he hurt?" Chinua asked. Her voice was dangerously calm, the kind of stillness that precedes a hurricane.
The soldier nodded, his swallow audible in the silence. "Before he went under, he gave a message. 'Pojin and the Chief are gone.'"
The air in the room seemed to ignite. The warmth of the earlier laughter was replaced by a heat of a different kind—the burning of bridges and the smell of impending war. Chinua's eyes flared with a cold, predatory fire as she looked down at the map, seeing the village of Pojin not as a sanctuary, but as a grave.
"So," she whispered, the sound carrying with the sharp, metallic edge of a sword being unsheathed. "They didn't take me seriously. I told them if they crossed the border, they would pay a hundred times over for every step they took on our soil."
Without a word, Naksh bolted from the study. He vaulted onto a nearby horse and spurred it into a frantic gallop down the ashen streets of Ntsua-Ntu, his mind a blur of fear as he raced toward the Eastern Gate.
He skidded to a halt before Azad's tent, dismounting before the horse had even fully stopped. He threw the door cloth aside and stepped into the dim, iron-scented air just as the military physician pulled the final arrowhead from Möndör's back. The sound of metal leaving flesh was sickening. Naksh watched, paralyzed, as blood surged from the wound, tracing the curve of his son's ribs before disappearing beneath his belly.
"How is he?" Naksh's voice was a low, jagged rasp. His eyes never left the doctor's hands.
"He is not doing well," the physician replied, his focus absolute as he threaded a needle. He began the grim work of stitching the boy back together. "We must wait. If he survives the fever tonight, he lives. If not..."
Naksh's lip trembled. His gaze fell upon the arrow on the floor—the golden markings on the shaft glinting in the candlelight. It was the mark of the Paayasian elites. His breath came in angry, ragged hitches; he knew that staying inside this small space would only make his fury boil over. He took one last look at Möndör's ghostly, pale face and stepped out into the afternoon light.
Just as he surfaced for air, the thunder of hooves announced the arrival of Chinua and the rest of the command.
"How is he?" Chinua asked, her boots hitting the dirt as she dismounted.
"Bad," Naksh said, his voice hollow. "If he makes it through the fever tonight, he has a chance."
"He's strong," Zhi said, placing a heavy, grounding hand on Naksh's shoulder. "He'll make it."
Chinua turned to her commanders, her voice snapping back into a sharp, military rhythm. "Drystan, Khawn—take a thousand soldiers and Azad. Ride for Pojin immediately. We will gather the main force and follow at dawn. You leave within two hours."
"Understood," Drystan said. They mounted and vanished into the crowd of people, the rhythm of their departure sounding like the first drums of war.
Chinua looked back at Naksh. "You stay here. If he doesn't make it... it's important that you are there to see him through his final journey." She watched the big man disappear back into the tent; his shoulders slumped under a weight no armor could protect against.
"Jeet," Chinua said, her eyes shifting to the younger brother. "Stay with him. Make sure Naksh doesn't lose his head and ride for Pojin alone. And you—you stay put too."
"I've got it, Chinua," Jeet nodded, though the agony of not knowing his own family's fate was eating him alive.
At that moment, Hye stepped out of the tent, his face grim. "Chinua... the boy might not survive the hour. The fever is already ravaging him."
Jeet's heart dropped like a stone.
"There is only one way," Hye continued. "In Nue-Li, there was a medicine called the Snow Lotus. It cools the body from the inside out. It is his only chance."
Before Hye could even finish the sentence, Chinua was back in her saddle. She didn't speak; she simply wheeled the horse around and hammered her heels into its flanks.
"Do you even know what it looks like!" Hye shouted after her, his voice lost in the wind. He turned to Jeet. "Stay here. We'll be back with the medicine—if the palace still has it."
Hye vaulted onto his mount and gave chase, the two of them disappearing like shadows down the street, leaving the camp to wait for life or death in the silence of the Eastern Gate.