The murmuring crowd stilled once more as Alexis stepped forward.
His movements were deliberate—each step as smooth as if choreographed, yet grounded in sincerity.
The sun caught the edge of his profile, casting half his face in gold.
The temple terrace felt like a stage, and though Alexis wore no crown, no seal, the weight of every eye made him feel like a king in the moment between exile and legend.
The wind stirred.
It lifted the hem of his tunic and sent the gold-and-white banners fluttering overhead like wings poised for flight.
Before the High Priest, Alexis bowed—not as an imprisoned man begging pardon, nor as a soldier kneeling to command, but as a man offering honor where it was due.
"High Priest," he said, voice even and solemn, "with reverence, I accept the Empress's pardon."
A gentle murmur passed through the crowd.
"And I thank you—not only for delivering this message, but for the grace and kindness you've shown me through the changing seasons. You, more than most, have taught me that faith can be silent and still burn bright."
The High Priest inclined his head, his eyes unreadable beneath the ceremonial veil.
Behind him, the sacred braziers crackled softly, their incense drifting in curling plumes.
Alexis turned now to the gathered thousands—fishermen, rebels, mothers, merchants, children too young to know what pardon meant, but old enough to recognize when something was changing.
His voice rang out—not loud, but deep and intimate, as though he spoke to each person alone.
"People of this island," he said, "when I arrived, I did so as an enemy, bound in defeat."
A few heads dipped, as if in shame.
"But you did not meet me with hatred. You watched. You questioned. And in time… you trusted."
The air shifted.
A hush of reverent memory passed through the thousands gathered—scenes replayed in their minds: Alexis lifting flood-weary children into boats, bleeding in the fields beside local militia, arguing in their favor when grain rations were withheld.
"You allowed me to serve," he continued. "Your wounded. Your fields. Your dignity. You taught me more about justice than the banners of war ever could."
The edge of his voice caught there—but only for a heartbeat.
"I will not forget you. Nor this place. Nor the truths I've come to know between your cliffs and your silence."
He straightened. The moment hung there, raw and real.
"But now, I must return to Ro."
There it was—the expected conclusion. The final breath of the story.
The crowd shifted, rising like a tide.
Some wept.
Some clapped.
Some stood frozen in place, caught between grief and pride. And then, like birds breaking from trees, the voices called out:
"Thank you, Alexis!"
"Safe return, General!"
"You'll always be one of us!"
Their cries swelled and rolled over the stone terraces like a wave of incense—warm, bittersweet, impossible to contain.
Alexis bowed once to the people, again to the High Priest.
Then turned to leave—
But stopped.
He pivoted slowly back, lifting his chin, voice rising—not with command, but with courteous inquiry wrapped in subtle steel.
"High Priest," he said, "before I go, may I ask one final question?"
The High Priest turned, brows lifted. "Of course."
Alexis's eyes were clear, the fire beneath the surface now shaped into something sharp and precise.
"This pardon, this gift from the Empress," he said, his voice calm but cutting, "why is there no representative from the Eastern Dominion here to witness it? No envoy. No sealbearer. Not even a herald to confirm its delivery?"
A hush snapped into place like a snare.
A whisper ran through the assembly, picking up speed and shape as it passed from lip to lip:
"Wait… he's right."
"Where's the Empress's seal?"
"Shouldn't there be a witness?"
"Was it forged?"
"Is it real?"
"Why isn't anyone here from the East?"
The mood shifted—uncertainty blossoming in the cracks of ceremony.
Reverence wavered.
Trust teetered.
Eyes turned to the High Priest, then to each other, then back to Alexis.
And in the center of it all, the High Priest… laughed.
A deep, aged sound—dry as sun-bleached stone.
"Ah," he murmured, the corners of his lips curling. "General Alexis. Always the careful one. Forgive me for not considering how you'd feel, standing beneath a gift that arrived… unseen."
He met Alexis's gaze and added, just loud enough:
"I think you will receive your answer soon enough."
Alexis turned, eyes rising to the highest balcony where he had once seen him—the shadow behind the ceremony. Hiral.
But now—
Empty.
No silhouette. No smile. No triumphant smirk.
Just still air and the breathless quiet of a moment stretching too long.
His expression flickered—barely. A fracture beneath control.
"So. You make your move, but won't show your face?"
"Not even now? After everything you orchestrated?"
Then—
A sound.
Sharp. Sudden.
The blast of a war horn echoed across the temple grounds. Deep and resonant, like the call of thunder announcing rain after drought.
Gasps rippled. The crowd turned.
At the grand stair below the terrace, the temple gates yawned open—and a procession emerged.
Black and red banners shimmered in the light, catching fire in the sun. The silk of the Eastern Nation flared in the wind.
In the center of the procession, atop a black steed bred for war, sat a figure cast in shadow and glory.
Clad in the full regalia of the Eastern Empire—obsidian-trimmed armor polished to a mirror shine, crimson silk cascading like blood over metal—
Stood Hiral.
Majestic. Purposeful. Deliberately late.
His pauldrons, black as volcanic glass, caught the light like blades. The helm beneath his arm was etched with the stylized eagle of the East, wings outstretched and talons poised, a predator's grace embedded in ceremonial steel.
He sat astride a black warhorse as composed as its rider, and when he reined it in at the temple's wide stair, he did not scan the crowd.
He was already looking at Alexis.
Their eyes locked.
And then, with perfect resonance and warmth spun for the ears of every listening soul, Hiral called out:
"My deepest apologies to the High Priest and the good people of the island for arriving after the pardon was delivered."
His voice rang like bells gilded in diplomacy, smooth and saturated in performative humility.
"I was detained overseeing the final arrangements aboard the Empress's flagship—so that General Alexis may depart immediately, and with the full honors befitting a man of his service and… renown."
A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd.
Some clapped in awe.
Others whispered:
"He came from the Empress's ship?"
"It is real, then—he really is pardoned."
"They're treating him like a returning hero!"
And Alexis—
Alexis stood motionless.
His spine straight. His chin high. But his hands flexed faintly at his sides, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to curl into fists.
His eyes—those sharp, stormy eyes—never left Hiral's.
They stared down his arrival like a blade unshaken by spectacle.
Yet beneath the glare burned more than fury.
There was understanding.
Recognition.
And that cursed, buried thing he could never quite extinguish even in exile:
Respect for Hiral.
Because this—this—was brilliant.
A move made not to wound him with steel, but to disarm him before an audience that now saw Alexis not just as a hero but as one of them.
Escorted in splendor.
Returned in pardon.
Cradled in the mercy of a general who now played both ally and master.
Hiral dismounted with all the ease of a man who had already won. His boots clicked against the stone as he walked forward—not swaggering, but precise. Controlled. Ceremonial.
A smile played at the edge of his lips—not mocking, but edged in cleverness.
"I countered well, didn't I?" it seemed to say.
"And now… what will you do?"
Alexis didn't move. Didn't flinch. But he did smile.
Briefly.
Tightly.
That strange smile of his— reserved only for maddening brilliance he couldn't help but admire.
He breathed out, the sigh soft but filled with silent words:
"You want to parade me out like a prize. An escorted relic polished for your Empress.
You want the people to see my return not as triumph, but as a favor.
You cloak your control in kindness.
And I hate how well you've done it."
And yet—
He also knew: This was a bloodless strategy.
Strategy, dressed in theater… but nevertheless brilliant move to secure people's deep sentiment without discrediting him.
A calculated kindness from a man who understood him too well.
And the crowd was watching.
Thousands of islanders—eyes filled with hope, pride, confusion. Their faith wavered on the edge of every expression Alexis now wore.
So he said nothing.
Not yet.
Instead, he stepped forward calmly, his boots echoing the same path Hiral had taken just seconds before.
And as the two men stood face to face—one in armor, one in robes, one cloaked in authority, the other in earned reverence—
The High Priest quietly stepped between them.
A silent arbiter.
He said nothing, but the gleam in his eyes glittered like starlight on water—watching the scales between them shift again.