The pier buzzed with life as the green-sailed vessel sliced toward the harbor, its presence stirring excitement among the gathered islanders. Fishermen paused mid-knot.
Children dashed barefoot along the dock's edge.
Even the elders, weathered by sun and sea, squinted toward the horizon with recognition.
That banner—emerald silk, marked not with war but diplomacy—was one they remembered.
And when the ramp was lowered, no soldier stepped forward.
Only Hiral.
Clad in soft diplomat's garb, with his cloak pinned by a bronze ocean-shell clasp, he descended the ramp not with the commanding air of a general, but with the practiced humility of a long-lost friend returning home.
His hair was tied loosely this time, wind-tugged, and his expression was warm—controlled, but never cold.
To the islanders, he was not General Hiral, but Friend of the High Priest, The Chart-Bearer, The One Who Mapped the Storm Paths.
A name said with nostalgia rather than fear. An old benefactor.
"Welcome back, good sir!"
"Ah, it's Urin's friend again!"
"You've heard of our other hero, haven't you? General Alexis—the prisoner who helps the people!"
"He built us the new sluice gates—and he didn't even ask for pay!"
Hiral offered a gentle smile and clasped his hands over his chest, his gaze scanning faces with subtle focus. "Ah… so the stories are true. He's still here. And still strong?"
"He works harder than most of our young men!"
"They say the gods forgave us because of him."
"Forgave?" Hiral repeated, a glimmer of false surprise in his tone. "I thought he had already left, after all they say that he can do so anytime for he's the great general of the Kingdom of Ro? So, he hasn't returned to Ro yet?"
A few of the villagers laughed, waving their hands.
"Left? Hah! He's more rooted here than the fig trees now."
"He built homes. Repaired the grain mill. Set up an entire irrigation plan with the southern villages. He's not going anywhere."
"Even the old temple healer says her work is lighter now."
Hiral chuckled softly, concealing the glint of calculation behind a veil of admiration. "Then the eastern nation should be thanking him instead of holding silence."
He let the words hang—lightly. Casually. Just enough to stir more commentary.
"Right as the eastern nation has done nothing for us," one man muttered. "Alexis came with chains, and somehow, we ended up free."
"That man, Ro doesn't deserve him. They didn't even try to negotiate to bring him home but I guess, here, is his home now."
"You should see the school he helped build," added an old woman, gripping her walking stick. "Books! Real books, in our tongue."
Hiral bowed his head reverently. "Then he truly is doing sacred work."
The crowd beamed at him.
One girl tugged at his sleeve and whispered that her brother had learned to count fish and coin now, thanks to General Alexis and the scholars he had brought in.
Hiral placed a hand gently atop her head.
"I came because I heard a man was bearing too much alone," he said, with just the right softness in his voice. "And I could not bear to stay idle, knowing one man was carrying burdens meant for kings."
The islanders that surrounded him smiled and told him it was too late and that Alexis already did what has to be done and more.
Hiral laughed at the islanders' warm rebuke at him.
With a few more polite bows and soft-spoken gratitude, Hiral excused himself with the pretense of heading to the High Temple. But not before making a small detour.
Through the winding alleys of woven reeds and sea-worn homes, he found his way to Urin's household.
A young boy's laughter greeted him from inside, along with the gentle murmur of a woman's song.
Urin's wife opened the door, startled at first—then her face broke into familiar warmth.
"Hiral!" she cried. "You're thinner than before. You didn't come all this way just to bring us more medicine, did you?"
"I came to see if your first son is coping with his rehabilitation better than before and how's the tincture I bought last time?" he inquired with a smile, handing her a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Fresh tincture. Easier on his stomach this time."
Her eyes misted. "He's doing better. Thank you for your kindness. That is why you are always welcome at our table."
As she poured water and fussed over tea, her words turned naturally to talk of the island.
"It's changed," she said, her voice low, wistful. "People look to Alexis now like we used to look to the priest's lantern on storm nights. He listens. He shares his bread before asking who's hungry. They'd follow him into the sea if he asked."
Hiral sipped the tea, hiding his satisfaction. "That kind of trust… it's rare. Dangerous, too. The sort of thing others may try to take from him."
She frowned. "Let them try. Even the old priest stepped back. Said the young man's deeds speak louder than gods."
He stayed until her son woke, checked on him, then left with a final smile and a soft, "He is better, thank goodness. Be well all of you."
But as he stepped back onto the path toward the temple, his smile curled sharper at the edges.
So it's deeper than I thought, he mused. And that—
He glanced back at the house.
—will be his shackle.
The more entwined Alexis became with this land, the heavier the chains of responsibility would weigh.
And when Hiral presented the "pardon"—publicly, generously, without any expectation—how could Alexis refuse?
To do so would be to let down everything he had built. Everyone he had fed. Every child who learned to read beneath the fig trees.
The path sloped down, giving Hiral an unobstructed view of the harbor—and there, just beyond the dock, walking up from a construction site barefoot and sweat-streaked, was Alexis himself.
His sleeves were rolled. His hands were caked in earth. He was laughing lightly with two fishermen, talking about pulleys and dried nets.
Then, he stopped.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, the air stilled. Even the wind seemed to hush. Just the creaking dock ropes and gulls circling high above.
Hiral's steps slowed. He turned, not abruptly, but with a subtle grace.
Their gazes locked—cool steel and smoldered restraint, tension stretched between them like a tight-drawn bow.
And then Hiral smiled. That quiet, court-trained smile. One that could mean I missed you, I pity you, or Checkmate—depending on the eyes that received it.
He bowed low.
Not as general to general. But as a polite visitor. A friend.
Alexis did not return it.
His fists clenched. The muscle in his jaw clenched. But with a slow breath, he relaxed it.
Not now. Not yet.
He turned away, saying nothing, and joined a small group of islanders who called out to him with a broken crate and spoiled grain.
Yet as he helped, his fingers trembled faintly.
Because that smile—that smile—lingered like salt on a wound.
Burning.
****
At the heart of the temple, where the scent of crushed sandalwood lingered in the stone, Hiral knelt before the High Priest.
His fingers fanned wide in the old gesture of reverence—an offering not of humility, but of precision.
Even the angle of his bow seemed to speak.
"High Priest," Hiral began, voice warm with familiar decorum, "for the haven you've preserved and the wisdom you carry through these days of uncertainty, I offer my deepest gratitude."
The High Priest, old and bent like a cedar weathered by decades of wind and salt, gave a soft, wheezing chuckle.
His hand waved in dismissal, frail but firm.
"You and Alexis," he murmured, "you both speak like poets before a storm. Save your breath. This old shell has no use for platitudes. Come—walk with me. Speak what truly brings you here."
Hiral's lips curved faintly, unbothered by the rebuke. He rose smoothly, robes whispering across the stone, and followed the old man into the inner sanctum.
They passed through veils of woven reeds strung with silk dyed gold—threads of sacred color, trembling gently in the wind.
As they entered the private garden hidden at the temple's heart, the tension in Hiral's shoulders eased just enough to be seen by one who knew him well.
Lanterns hung over a still pond.
Moon-colored stones framed miniature trees, their branches coiled and bent by years of careful hands.
A servant poured fragrant tea and slipped away silently, leaving only the sound of distant bells and the breath of incense in the air.
Here, Hiral let the mask slip—just slightly.
He spoke, each word placed with the same quiet discipline one used when playing Go.
His voice never rose. He stirred his tea as he spoke, the small spoon tapping glass like a clock counting down to war.
"The pardon," he said, "is many things. Mercy, yes. Theater, more so. A performance of grace for the Empress—to remind Ro, and this island, which nation still holds the reins of power."
He took a sip of tea. The warmth soothed his dry throat, but not his fatigue.
"It gives Alexis everything he's striving for right now. A clean path forward. While it frames the Eastern Empire as the savior, not the conqueror."
The High Priest's eyes narrowed, though he said nothing.
"And that," Hiral continued, "is the brilliance of it. If Alexis accepts, he cements our position in the hearts of the islanders. On the other hand, the people of Ro will say, 'The Empress brought our protector home.' Elevating the Empress higher than their King. If he refuses… then the people will wonder why. They will question. Doubt. And the burden will settle not on my shoulders, but his."
He set the cup down with delicate finality.
"It's not just about strategy," he admitted softly, "It's about pressure. About tilting the board just enough that Alexis must choose—between personal pride and the greater good."
The High Priest let out a breath, old and tired. "A pardon that traps as surely as a cage. You use mercy like a blade."
Hiral didn't deny it. "It is still mercy. Carefully measured. Sharpened to purpose. It shifts the winds in our favor, even as it gives him what he seeks. And yet…"
For the briefest moment, his voice faltered. Just a breath.
"…each day I balance on this edge, I grow more tired of it."
The High Priest's gaze softened. "Then why continue?"
Hiral looked down into his tea, watching the ripples settle. "Because it a burden for me to carry. For a brighter, better future of the Eastern Empire. And, because this world needs change, not just peace. And if I must bear the weight of being the one who pushes others into the light while walking through the dark… so be it."
There was silence. Deep and enduring.
"And Alexis?" the High Priest asked, his voice quieter. "Do you still mean to use him as a symbol, as a hero in your tale?"
Hiral looked down on his cup and wistfully smiled.
"He moves with conviction," Hiral said after a pause. "That makes him a threat—and an ally. I don't seek to control him. Only to align him long enough for the shift to happen. Long enough to finish what I began… before it all fell apart."
"Do you think he'll forgive you for making his choice a noose?"
"No," Hiral said simply. "But I believe he'll understand. And that… will be enough."
He stood then, slow and reverent, the silken sleeves of his robe whispering against the floor like wind through reeds.
The High Priest watched him closely, his gaze layered with age, with worry, with a trace of sorrow.
"Then may serenity and wisdom be with you, child," he said at last. "For you walk a path where both will be tested—and where neither may remain."
Outside, the wind stirred the lanterns hanging above the courtyard. They flickered like distant stars on the verge of being swallowed by the tide.
Hiral didn't speak again.
He only bowed, one last time, and left the garden with the weight of strategy, legend, and masks he had to put on pressing silently across his back.