The war camp had grown quieter as preparations solidified.
Only the murmur of sharpened blades, the muted clatter of armor, and the occasional call of sentries drifted through the night air.
Hiral sat within his tent, eyes calm, expression unreadable.
The lantern's light flickered against his bandaged side as he tightened the wrappings himself, his movements steady despite the pain that lingered deeper than he let on.
He had ordered Tirin to return to the capital earlier that evening, entrusting him with both the flow of logistics and the future stability of the East.
Now, Seran had been tasked with sending the wounded, the sick, and the youngest recruits back home.
"You're cutting us in half, you know," Seran had grumbled before stomping out to carry out the order. "Such a damn chore, dealing with you."
The words had made Hiral smile, faint and fleeting.
Now, alone, he uncorked one of his own concoctions and let the thick, bitter-smelling liquid seep over the worst of his wounds.
The sting bit into him, but then faded into a cooling numbness.
His body felt heavy, but the fire of his purpose still carried him forward.
When he spread the reports and coded notes before him, his sharp eyes scanned each line with precision.
Everything was in place.
The nobles in Ro? Swept clean. The capital of the East? Tied into a web that was already fraying. Alexis? Pulled inevitably toward the center of his design.
All that remained was the battle—the stage upon which the last act of this war would play.
The flap of his tent rustled.
Seran stepped in without ceremony, a chair dragged halfway across the floor before the man flopped into it with his arms crossed.
Hiral didn't look up immediately.
His gaze was fixed on nothing, his thoughts far from the tent.
"Oi," Seran's voice cut sharp through the stillness.
"What's with that look? You're staring holes in the air like you're already halfway to the afterlife. What are you thinking?"
At last, Hiral turned. His expression was distant still, but a faint, wry smile curved at his lips.
"It would be nice," he said softly, "if the gods chose to bless me again. If all I've set in motion could flow as smoothly as I hope."
Seran's brow furrowed. "Tch. You and your damn riddles. Say it straight."
Hiral's smile deepened, almost fond. "Very well, since you insist." He folded his hands atop the reports.
"I plan to fall in the coming battle."
The chair screeched as Seran lurched upright. "What?" His voice cracked.
"Don't you dare joke like that, Hiral!"
"I am not joking," Hiral replied evenly, raising a hand to calm him. "Listen, before you lash at me further."
Seran's chest heaved, but he forced himself to stay still, glaring like a caged beast.
"I will fall," Hiral continued, "and allow myself to be claimed as a war prisoner. This will force the East to halt any further conquests—my people will not rush blindly while their general lies in enemy hands. It will open the path for negotiation. And with Ro under a new ruler, more sympathetic than the rot we've fought until now, I will not truly be in danger. In time, the East will demand my return. And when I am released, it will be under the banner of Ro's goodwill. That gesture will appease our people, and strengthen the bond between nations."
Hiral's eyes darkened, but his voice never wavered.
"From there… it opens the path for me to finally move against the Empress. With the Crown Prince's blessing, I will dismantle the throne's corruption and set up a council to rule until the next generation finds its answer. That is the shape of the future I intend."
Silence hung thick.
Seran's mouth opened, then closed.
He raked his fingers through his hair and let out a choked laugh.
"I… I lost you somewhere between 'war prisoner' and 'coming back in good graces.'" His fists clenched at his sides. "You're insane, Hiral. Absolutely insane."
Hiral chuckled softly, the sound lacking mirth but full of warmth.
"All I need you to understand, Seran, is not to be surprised if I fall tomorrow."
Seran's face twisted, his voice breaking as he barked, "Don't you say that like it's some passing weather! Don't you dare throw yourself away like that—!"
His protest cut off, heavy in the air.
For a long moment he just breathed, hard and ragged, before finally slumping back into his chair.
"…Damn it. Fine. I'll… I'll try. But I'll never accept it, Hiral. Not really."
Hiral's smile softened, though the hollowness in it didn't fade. "That's enough for me."
The lantern swayed gently, casting both their shadows long against the canvas walls—one tense and storming, the other still as stone.
****
The night was cool, the air heavy with the tang of sharpened steel, leather, and faint woodsmoke.
Around the camp, soldiers spoke in hushed tones, sharpening blades or tending gear, though some leaned against their spears, staring at the horizon as if they could glimpse tomorrow's bloodshed already written there.
Hiral moved among them with quiet steps, his presence drawing the men upright like the pull of the tide.
He stopped at each group, speaking not as a distant commander but as a comrade who had marched through mud and fire with them.
"You have followed me this far," he said to one ring of spearmen, his voice steady, warm even.
"Through rain, hunger, and battles we shouldn't have survived. For that, I thank you."
Some bowed their heads, others clenched their fists across their chests.
"No matter what happens in the coming battle, you will be honored for your service. That much, I will see done."
The men shifted, unease flickering in their eyes.
His words carried a weight they recognized, and they seemed to sense what lay beneath them—that this fight would cost more than they had been told.
One young soldier called out, his voice shaking but strong, "General, we will fight without regret. Beside you, until the end."
A murmur of assent swept through the group.
Hiral stepped forward, resting a hand on the soldier's shoulder, then swept his gaze across them all.
"I don't need your lives spent in glory. All I want… is for you to fight for your right to live for another day. That is enough for me."
The tension broke into something deeper, steadier.
The men straightened, not from duty, but from a quiet vow to answer him with everything they had.
By the time he completed his rounds, the moon had risen high and painted the camp in silver.
It was past midnight when he turned toward his tent—yet his feet carried him elsewhere.
Toward a great boulder set at the edge of the camp, half-buried in earth and kissed by the night wind.
He climbed it with ease, settling on its crown.
The breeze tugged at his hair, cool and clean, carrying the faint rustle of grass. Above, the stars sprawled endless, unbothered by the wars of men.
Hiral leaned back on his hands, staring upward, letting the silence seep into him.
So much had been laid, so many threads woven: the examinations in disguise, the slow poisoning of the corrupt court, the seeds planted in Ro.
Against all odds, the pattern still held. His design had not unraveled.
Yet now, with the battlefield so near, the doubts whispered at him—what ifs weaving shadows at the edge of his certainty.
And then, unbidden, his thoughts slipped toward Alexis.
Would he hate him now? For dragging him again and again into the heart of the storm? For chaining his fate to battles not his own?
Hiral closed his eyes, his chest tightening. A thousand faces passed before him, enemies and allies alike—but Alexis's lingered, sharpest of all.
"…If only," he murmured into the wind, "we could have left it all. Sailed away, and let the world burn without us."
The night swallowed his words, carrying them away like smoke. For the briefest heartbeat, he allowed himself to imagine it: the sea stretching endless, a quiet boat, the storm behind them at last.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. "Let me dream," he whispered, "just for a little while… of what could have been."
The stars gave no answer.
Only the breeze, soft and unyielding, brushed against him as though to remind him that dawn—and war—waited just beyond the horizon.