The crown prince's wing was quieter than the rest of the palace—a hush that seemed less like reverence and more like secrecy.
Hiral stepped through the threshold, and for the first time in weeks, he was met not with the sight of a boy pale as death, but a child whose cheeks had regained a gentle flush of life.
"General Hiral," the young prince greeted softly, his voice still frail but steady enough to carry a hint of dignity. He bowed his head, and Hiral inclined his own in return.
"Your Highness," Hiral replied.
The boy—Amar—lifted his gaze, eyes brightening. "Would you… join me for tea? It is my favorite time of day. The sun looks best from the pavilion."
Hiral allowed a faint smile. "If it pleases you."
Amar's small face lit up, and with surprising energy for his recovering frame, he rose and led the way himself.
Through winding corridors and across a wooden bridge, they reached a pavilion that rested above a mirror of still water, where pale lilies bloomed in clusters.
A great wisteria tree stretched its boughs nearby, its cascading blossoms framing the view in shades of violet.
Servants, already anticipating their arrival, laid out tea and delicate snacks upon a low table. Hiral did not so much as glance at the cups; he knew these were his own people, carefully placed in the prince's service.
Poison would find no entry here.
As they sipped their tea, Amar looked down into his cup, his small hands trembling slightly as he set it back onto its saucer. He masked it well with a calm expression, but Hiral caught the flicker of unease in the movement.
"I owe you my life," the boy said quietly, then forced himself to look up. "Please… give my thanks to your physician as well."
Hiral inclined his head, but instead of answering, he raised a subtle hand. At once, the attending servants bowed and withdrew, leaving the pavilion hushed but for the soft rustle of petals in the breeze.
Amar's eyes widened in astonishment. "They— they obeyed you."
Hiral regarded him steadily, saying nothing.
The boy bit his lip, his eyes glistening. He swallowed hard, his voice cracking as it escaped his throat.
"Tell me… how can I be like you? How can I be powerful?" He clenched his fists on his knees, trembling harder now. "If I'm powerful… will I be great as you?"
Hiral lifted his cup, savoring the bitter warmth before answering. He set it down with deliberate calm, his gaze never wavering from the boy's.
"Before you ask how," Hiral said, his voice low and measured, "you must ask why. What is it you truly desire? Is it power… or is it freedom?"
Amar froze, searching Hiral's face as though the question itself had struck him. The blossoms overhead swayed, scattering petals into the water below.
At last, the boy's small voice broke the silence. "I… I want to be safe."
Hiral leaned back slightly, meeting Amar's eyes directly. For the first time, it was not a general speaking to a prince, nor a servant to a master.
It was one soul measuring another, fragile but burning with need.
Hiral set his teacup down, the porcelain making the faintest click against the lacquered wood. His eyes rested on the boy across from him, steady as ever.
"Then, Your Highness," he said softly, "tell me—what does it mean to be safe?"
Amar flinched at the question, his small hands tightening around his knees. At first, he looked away, lips pressed thin as though the words were locked in his chest. But slowly, haltingly, they began to spill forth.
"Safe means…" His voice cracked, and he swallowed. "Safe means not fearing whether my food or drink is poisoned. Safe means knowing that when assassins come, the servants around me would protect me… not step aside."
He hesitated, trembling harder. "Safe means being able to speak my thoughts… and not have my words twisted to feed someone's greed. Safe means… being able to sleep at night, and not wonder if I will wake the next day."
His voice grew thinner, but the torrent would not stop. "Safe means having someone by my side… even when it gets hard. Safe means being believed in, not ignored."
The words kept coming—fragmented, broken, tumbling over each other until his chest heaved. By the end, his small face was blotched red, tears rolling freely down his cheeks as he wept in earnest.
Hiral did not move. He did not rise to comfort him, nor offer a hand to still his trembling. He only sat, calm as a mountain, enduring the storm of the child's grief in silence.
When Amar's sobs at last softened into sniffling gasps, Hiral reached into his sleeve and laid two folded cloths on the table between them.
"One to sneeze," Hiral said simply, "and another to wipe your face."
Amar blinked at him, cheeks burning with embarrassment, but he took the towels wordlessly. He blew his nose, wiped his tear-streaked skin, and finally dared to glance up again.
Hiral was watching him with a faint smile—not mocking, not pitying, but gentle in its restraint.
"All you said," Hiral spoke at last, his voice quiet but unyielding, "are reasonable. But life, Your Highness, is not."
The boy stiffened, but Hiral's eyes held his firmly, neither cruel nor coddling.
"No one chooses where, when, or how they are born. That choice was never ours. We can only endure… and make the best of the life placed in our hands. That is the unfairness of the world."
Amar lowered his head, silent, his lips trembling again. But Hiral's tone softened as he continued.
"Yet what you yearn for is not folly. Given your station, such desires are not impossible. It only means you must learn how to gain them—in your way, not another's."
Hiral leaned in slightly, his gaze sharpening as though he were pressing a blade of truth into the boy's hand.
"Remember this well, Crown Prince: expectation unmet breeds resentment. The greater the expectation, the deeper the wound when it shatters. So first—you must learn to expect only what you can meet. Anchor your hopes in the ground beneath your feet, not in the clouds you cannot reach."
Amar's breath caught, and though tears still clung to his lashes, he looked at Hiral with something different now. Not merely the fragile longing of a child—but the faint, flickering spark of understanding.
The murmur of cicadas and the faint rustle of the wisteria branches framed the silence between them.
For a heartbeat, Hiral thought the boy might ask him another question—but instead, the sharp sound of hurried footsteps broke through.
A servant appeared at the edge of the pavilion, bowing low, voice strained. "Master Hiral, an urgent message has arrived. You are requested at once."
Hiral's eyes flicked toward Amar. The boy's lips pressed into a thin line, his small shoulders tightening. The message could not be ignored.
The Crown Prince drew a steadying breath, straightening his back with effort beyond his years. "…You may go," he said softly, though reluctance bled through his calm tone.
Hiral did not rise immediately. Instead, he shifted, lowering himself to one knee before the boy. Amar's eyes widened at the unexpected gesture.
"For now," Hiral said, his voice low and steady, "the greatest shield you can hold is your health. Guard it. Eat, drink, and rest with care. And more importantly—learn to listen. Watch the people and the world around you. Let your eyes and ears become your armor. That is how you will begin to practice what I told you."
Amar swallowed hard, the sting of tears threatening again.
"I sincerely hope," Hiral finished, bowing his head, "that you will one day achieve what you desire most."
He rose, fluid and controlled, gave the boy a final respectful bow, and turned toward the waiting servant. His steps were quiet but unyielding as he left the pavilion, leaving behind the faint scent of tea and the trembling boy beneath the wisteria.
By the time he reached his office, the tenderness in his chest had already hardened into steel.
Tirin and Seran were waiting, their faces grave. Scrolls, maps, and coded slips of parchment littered the table before them, the air heavy with ink and wax-sealed urgency.
Seran spoke first, his voice clipped. "The newest reports confirm it. The Ro kingdom has fully mobilized. Their banners are raised, and their supply lines stretch farther each day."
Hiral lowered himself into his chair, his face unreadable, though a heaviness shadowed his eyes. His hands moved over the parchment reports, steady and deliberate, absorbing every figure, every estimation of cavalry strength, grain stockpiles, siege weaponry.
He did not study them as a gambler weighing odds, but as a physician diagnosing an illness—calculating how much pain must be endured, and how much could yet be spared.
All thoughts of the young prince—his trembling hands, his yearning for safety—were folded away and locked deep in the recesses of his mind.
The war would give no quarter to softness, but he could not allow himself to forget why he endured its harsh weight: to leave behind a future the boy might still inherit.
So much to anticipate. So much to prepare. And all the while, ministers lined their pockets, officials flaunted their titles, and prideful leaders steered their people into slaughter.
The common folk bled for banners and vanity. Hiral knew he could not stop the tide—but perhaps, with care, he could shape its course so that fewer lives were crushed beneath it.
Tirin stepped forward, laying down a coded ledger marked with his precise script. "Our forces are also ready to move—fully supplied, fully armed.
We've already secured the key crossings and granaries. As for Ro's route, their choices are narrowing. Whichever path they take, we've set contingencies. The plans are ready for execution at your signal."
Hiral inclined his head, though his mind was already moving beyond the battlefield.
For months, he had sown quiet measures meant not only for war but for what might follow: emissaries disguised as traders sent to Ro's border towns, not merely to gauge defenses, but to whisper of coexistence; agreements with guilds to keep supply lines open should a truce take root; even messages sent under veiled seals to Ro's more moderate lords, reminding them that peace was still possible if pride could be swallowed.
Every plan was built with two faces—one for steel, one for olive branches. Contingencies for battle, but also escape routes for parley. Strategies that could deliver a crushing blow, yet could just as easily be reshaped into a gesture of mercy.
His aim was not victory at any cost, but survival with the least loss, and perhaps, a chance to end the bloodshed before it devoured both kingdoms whole.
He scanned the documents stacked neatly on his desk. Every margin bore his marks—notations for armies, yes, but also pauses, gaps, deliberately left spaces where a peaceful word might be allowed to take root.
At last, he leaned back, a long breath escaping him. The weight of choice pressed hard on his shoulders, yet his resolve did not waver.
"Time for me to watch," he murmured—not as a conqueror, but as a guardian, determined to seize whatever opening the chaos of war might give for peace.