The scent of warm ink, old parchment, and dried petals clung to the still air of the Eastern court, thick with summer and stifled diplomacy. The windows were flung wide, yet even the breeze seemed reluctant to cross the lacquered threshold where power pulsed in silence.
On Hiral's obsidian desk, scrolls rose like battalions awaiting orders—treaties, grain requisitions, complaints from snubbed nobles, requests for favor, and sealed royal decrees marked in red wax.
And amidst the orderly chaos sat a single scroll—bound in crimson twine, its seal etched with the mark of the island temple.
The High Priest's script was as ever: unadorned, severe, and sharp as flint.
[The tide rises. The people call for annexation. Alexis has won the islanders' hearts and so he now rises—to shake the island's foundation and to hook your attention.]
Hiral exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, then leaned back into the plush curve of his chair—a spoil of conquest once belonging to a minor warlord whose lands had been "pacified" through diplomacy veiled in steel.
Outside, cicadas trilled their tireless songs. A cup of chrysanthemum tea cooled at his elbow.
He smiled faintly to himself, the corners of his lips curling with something close to admiration.
"Ah... so he's begun to make his move," he murmured, voice rich and tempered like aged wine.
At the far end of the chamber, Tirin looked up from a tower of scrolls, his habitual scowl in place.
"Should we worry, General?"
"Alexis appears to be inciting rebellion."
"Or worse—reform," Tirin added flatly.
Hiral chuckled, low and dry, as he swirled the tea with languid grace.
"He's not inciting anything. Alexis doesn't believe in mobs or speeches. No—he inspires. Quietly. Naturally. Like a fire in winter that draws shivering hands without needing to call them."
Tirin's eyes narrowed. "You sound far too entertained."
"Should I not be?" Hiral set down his cup. "It's like playing chess in the dark, only to find your opponent has mirrored your first ten moves."
Tirin grunted. "Only you would compare looming unrest to a board game."
"Life is a game, Tirin. That's why there are winners and losers."
But in truth, Hiral didn't see the world as a board of black and white tiles. No—it was closer to theater.
A grand stage, a rotating set, and masks passed from hand to hand. He played a dozen roles a day, each one seamless, necessary, and ultimately disposable.
He had long abandoned the luxury of sentiment. Even philosophy was a forgotten indulgence. The author who first likened life to a play had been buried under dust and irrelevance long ago—few could name him now, fewer still had time to read.
But Hiral remembered. Always. Because truth lingered in old things, even if no one quoted them anymore.
Still, he shook the thought aside and returned to work.
****
But Hiral had not been idle—not now, not ever.
For the past five months, he had labored behind veils of false identity, operating under a borrowed name and title—an unassuming son of a high-ranking military minister, so bland in appearance, so modest in demeanor, that no one questioned his presence in the eastern court.
Behind that mask, he had moved like a master conductor orchestrating a slow crescendo:
He redirected the Empress's gaze toward vulnerable yet bountiful lands under siege to the north—lands that Hiral had already secured secret pacts with, offering autonomy in exchange for peace and tribute. The Empress, ever hungry for easy conquest, saw no need to meddle with the island for now.
He poisoned the ambitions of rival ministers, feeding their paranoia with false letters, half-truths, and subtly planted rumors. Petty rivalries flared. Accusations of treason crept in whispers. Each day, their attention turned further inward—away from the island, away from Alexis.
He charmed the Kingdom of Ro's diplomats dispatched by the weakened court—offering them fine wine, soft flattery, and a fabricated reverence for Alexis that bordered on worship.
More cunning still, he advised them discreetly:
"Surely Ro would suffer if its beloved general were never to return."
"Think of your borders—do they feel safe now?"
"General Hiral, after all, has taken more land in Alexis' absence…"
Each word fell like rain on dry grass—measured, subtle, and destined to ignite.
He hadn't just disrupted the tides. He'd engineered them.
And now Ro's inner court simmered with discontent—some eager for Alexis's return, others fearing the power vacuum his continued exile might cause.
Mourning turned to doubt. Doubt turned to dread.
Back in his chamber, Hiral traced a finger along the High Priest's message.
"So this is your way of resisting," he murmured. "A move that truly reflects you, Alexis…"
He remembered the hunger in Alexis's eyes—not for conquest, not for vengeance.
But for something quieter. Resolution. Reckoning. The closure of unfinished threads.
"You want me to come to you," Hiral said softly. "Not for war. For understanding..."
He drummed his fingers along the edge of the desk, then let his breath settle.
"Not yet," he murmured. "But soon. Just a little longer."
****
The next morning arrived as any other—sunlit and still.
Hiral was already at his desk before the second bell.
When Tirin entered an hour later, still groggy from poor sleep and political dread, Hiral looked up and spoke before the man could open his mouth.
"Draft a reply to the High Priest."
Tirin blinked. "Already?"
"Tell him to hold firm. Alexis must be allowed to continue. But... advise him to make the offerings more visible—better food, cleaner clothes, a warmer place to rest."
Tirin hesitated. "You're encouraging the public sentiment?"
"No," Hiral said smoothly, flicking his wrist in dismissal. "I'm guiding it. Sentiment is like wind—it cannot be stopped. But it can be steered."
He stood, stretching with the ease of a man who knew the next move belonged to him.
Outside, the wind rustled the papers on his desk—quiet, obedient, and carefully arranged.
By dusk, all was set.
Seren resumed the title of General in the eastern campaigns.
Tirin was formally appointed to oversee the hidden machinery Hiral had painstakingly constructed across both the Eastern court and the royal court of Ro.
And Hiral, silent beneath his many masks, looked toward the sea—toward the island, toward the firelight rising in a people's eyes.
Toward Alexis.