The office's air, still heavy from the revelation about Minister Yan, slowly shifted as the three men began to move.
Hiral straightened in his chair, the cruel edge of his smile dissolving into the tempered calm he wore like armor.
He smoothed a hand over the documents stacked on his desk, then lifted his gaze toward Tirin.
"Now, enough of shadows," he said quietly. "Tell me, Tirin, how fares the nation? I would hear the truth before we face the banquet's illusions."
Tirin adjusted his spectacles, shuffling through his notes before speaking.
"Because of our measures—directing jade and diamond profits into discreet channels instead of the coffers—the common people have received more than scraps this year. Outskirts villages have watermills repaired, seeds distributed, and supplies moved by our caravans. Even the poorest households within the inner capital eat better than they did two years ago. We'll have a surplus of grain this season."
He paused, his expression darkening. "But if war breaks out… if drafting begins… the surplus will vanish. Fields will be left untended. More resources will go to feed soldiers than families. The shadow of recession could return, the same as two years past."
Hiral folded his hands beneath his chin, listening intently. His eyes narrowed in thought, flicking over the plans already spread across the desk.
He traced invisible lines in his mind—the movement of resources, the bleeding of manpower, the ripple of cause and effect.
After a long silence, he finally said, "Then we will offset it. Outsource labor from the vassal lands. The ones we 'conquered' in name, but in truth left to govern themselves."
His tone was quiet, pragmatic. "Their autonomy will make them pliable. Their pride will make them eager to prove their worth. And the flow of workers will steady our own fields."
Tirin's brows lifted. Slowly, he nodded. "It could work. Enough hands to keep the land alive while we bleed for war."
Seran snorted softly but without malice. "Trust you to think three moves ahead while everyone else sharpens blades for a feast."
Hiral stood, smoothing his cloak over his shoulders. His expression was calm, composed, a mask settling back into place.
"Then let them feast," he said. "Let them toast to their imagined victories. I have work enough to ensure their kingdom does not collapse beneath them."
And so, when the great halls filled with music, laughter, and the shallow brilliance of jeweled ministers singing praises, Hiral walked among them with a serene smile.
None saw the weight carried behind his eyes. None knew that the empire's true stability—its quiet balance, its hidden surplus—rested not in the Empress's hand nor the court's pomp, but in the quiet machinations of the man they thought only a servant of war.
Blind, they drank to conquest. Blind, they missed the only mind keeping them from ruin.
****
The banquet hall blazed with light. Hundreds of golden lanterns reflected against polished marble, mirrored by the jeweled plates and goblets arrayed like offerings before the court.
Music drifted, sweet and triumphant, as the Empress rose from her throne at the head of the long table.
Shana was a vision of power incarnate. Scarlet silk spilled like blood across the dais, every fold embroidered with golden fire. Her imperial crown, a lattice of gold set with rubies, framed her face in a halo of authority.
Her painted lips curved into a smile both gracious and merciless, her eyes shining as though the world itself bowed to her radiance.
"My loyal ministers," she began, her voice ringing out like a blade striking an anvil. "My noble generals. My beloved nation. Tonight we celebrate not only the triumph of our arms, but the destiny of our Empire!"
The hall swelled with applause. Shana lifted a jeweled hand, silencing them with the effortless command of a sovereign.
"The western pretenders of Ro have declared war," she continued, her tone rich with scorn, "and so they have given us the chance—no, the gift—to prove before all nations that we are supreme. This is no mere contest of arms. This is our ascension. When we emerge victorious, the very name of this continent shall change. It will no longer be divided lands squabbling for scraps, but Empress Shana's Continent."
Her voice soared, silks trailing as she spread her arms like wings. "One people, one Empire, one eternal supremacy!"
The court erupted. Ministers raised goblets, shouting praises. Some were flushed with wine and excitement, others with the greed of conquest, but their cheers filled the chamber like a storm.
Only a few—Hiral among them—remained quiet. He lifted his goblet and drank with practiced serenity, his expression unreadable, his silence drowned beneath the thunder of adulation.
When the speeches ended, the banquet loosened into the easy chaos of mingling. Servants poured wine and carried steaming trays between clusters of officials.
Hiral became a quiet center of gravity. Some ministers approached him, words honeyed with false camaraderie, testing where his loyalties truly lay. He parried them with smiles so polite they slipped into mockery.
Others tried to provoke him—one drunken noble challenged his strategy, another jeered at his family name—but their efforts only left them humiliated when Hiral's calm, razor-edged retorts drew laughter from onlookers.
Across the hall, a few watched him silently, gauging every gesture, every fleeting reaction. Hiral gave them nothing.
At last, the banquet waned. The music quieted, the laughter dulled, and courtiers began to drift away in jeweled clusters.
Hiral slipped into the cool night air, his cloak drawn close.
But before he reached the palace steps, a voice rang out.
"Well, well, little brother," sneered a figure stepping from the shadows of a colonnade.
Hiral's step-brother—two years his elder, clad in jewels that weighed heavier than his worth—smirked with smug delight.
"You seem to have forgotten your manners. A hero you may be, but your first duty is to pay greetings to me."
Behind him came the slow shuffle of another man. Minister Yan, his father, draped in robes of hollow dignity, his face twisted with disdain.
"Unfilial child," he spat. "Not a word of greeting to your father at the Empress's banquet. Do you forget it is because of me you stand where you are? That your glory is mine to bestow? You should be on your knees in thanks—"
Hiral only smiled. It was a thin, cold curve of lips, the kind that dismissed rather than answered.
Without a word, without a bow, without even a pause, he walked past them.
Their curses followed him down the steps, his father's venom twined with his brother's arrogant jeers. He did not listen. He did not slow.
Only when he was beyond the torches' reach did he stop, exhaling slowly. The rage he had suppressed prickled beneath his skin, threatening to claw free.
His fists tightened, then released.
I must keep my calm. Now isn't the time. Not yet…
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing steady. He had more to do—so much more—than waste himself on petty bait. His time would come.
Their downfall would be written, but not by the weakness of his temper.
Hiral lifted his head, composed once more, and strode into the palace's silent corridors.