The summons came swiftly. Before the echoes of war maps and supply lists could fully leave his mind, Hiral was once again ushered into the Empress's private audience chamber.
The lacquered screens were pulled wide, letting golden light spill over polished floors, casting her in the radiance she always claimed as her own.
Empress Shana greeted him with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "So," she said smoothly, voice like velvet drawn over steel, "my hound finally bares his teeth. At last, you make your move." Her gaze lingered on him, weighing, testing. "I expect great things."
Hiral bowed low, his expression composed, his tone as measured as ever. "Your Majesty honors me with her confidence."
She tilted her head, almost coy. "Confidence should be celebrated. We ought to hold a festival in the capital—fireworks, music, the people rejoicing in the glory of the victory you will bring us. A proper omen for triumph."
The words were laced with command, but Hiral's response was immediate, a master's blend of deference and iron.
"Your Majesty, victory is best heralded by silence before the storm. To rouse celebration now would scatter our shadows and alert our enemies. Should we wish to strike with advantage, it would be far wiser to let Ro remain blind and complacent."
Her brows arched, her smile curving, too controlled to be genuine.
Hiral pressed on, his voice low but steady. "The people's joy will be greater when the war is already won. And you, Empress, will be remembered not as one who gambled with fate, but as one who saw the field clear when others clamored for spectacle. As you have always been."
Silence stretched. Then, slowly, Shana laughed—a delicate, dangerous sound.
"You and your glib tongue."
She leaned back on her seat, eyes glittering with that subtle dissatisfaction she never cared to hide. "Very well, Hiral. No festival. We will wait. I will let you have this… advantage."
Her dismissal came with a flutter of fingers. He bowed once more and turned to leave, her smile still clinging at the edge of his thoughts like a thorn.
The corridors beyond the chamber were quieter, colder. His pace was unhurried, yet his mind surged ahead—lists, commands, faces of men he would soon send to march.
Each step carried him closer to his troops, closer to the war he had prepared for.
Then he passed the pond.
Ripples caught the sunlight, scattering across the water's surface. Beneath, koi drifted in languid grace, their scales flashing gold and crimson.
Hiral's steps slowed, halted.
His gaze lingered too long on the shifting water, on the fleeting beauty of creatures that knew nothing of pride or crowns.
And in that instant, the memory struck.
Alexis.
The necklace, the warmth of that fleeting gift, the unspoken tether it had forged.
For a breath, Hiral's lips pressed tight, his eyes closing against the surge within.
The battlefield rose before his mind's eye—not maps and armies, but the stark image of Alexis standing across from him, sword in hand, fate drawing them into collision.
Grief pierced him, swift and raw, unguarded.
But only for a moment.
His breath steadied. His eyes opened, calm as if no storm had touched him. With measured grace, he resumed his walk, his face unreadable, his stride unbroken.
He did not look back at the koi. He would not.
The war awaited.
The departure from the capital was without fanfare. No festival drums, no banners waving in premature victory—only the muted thunder of hooves and the steady rhythm of marching boots.
Dust rose behind them, curling in the morning light as Hiral rode at the head, Seran and Tirin at his side, the army stretching out like a living river behind them.
Yet their path was not one of conquest alone.
In every city they passed, in each weathered village and isolated homestead tucked against the hills, Hiral halted the march. The people, fearful of what the looming war might bring, often greeted them with guarded stares.
But fear ebbed when Hiral dismounted, when he walked among them with neither arrogance nor command, but with listening ears and open eyes.
Small squads were left behind under his orders—not to strip the towns for resources, but to form quiet bulwarks. Networks of protection and support, men trained to guide villagers to safety or secure grain stores when supply lines inevitably frayed.
Families too far removed from the main roads received discreet marks of protection—safe routes sketched in dirt, caches of food left behind, quiet reassurances whispered to farmers and woodcutters that they would not be abandoned.
The people began to watch the army not with dread, but with a tentative kind of hope.
Hiral rode always among his men, never above them. He ate from the same rations, slept under the same makeshift shelters, sharing the biting cold or stifling heat without distinction.
Around the campfires, he did not simply issue orders; he listened. He learned each man's strength, each woman's weakness, committing their names to memory. Veterans who had long seen war's brutality found themselves standing taller, pride tempered by loyalty.
Fresh recruits, still raw with nerves, discovered steadiness in his presence. Respect, unbidden, was forged through the rhythm of shared toil.
Seran tried, though he knew he could not move as Hiral did. His role was different: he ensured the wagons were stocked, that supplies never ran dry, that the weary had blankets and the sick had broth.
Where Hiral bound men through deeds, Seran kept them standing through discipline and care, his gruff reminders the backbone of the march.
Still, even Seran could not help his frustration when Hiral skipped meals, pouring every breath into strategy, into maps spread over firelit tables, into dispatches carried under the cloak of night.
More than once, Seran scolded him outright, shoving bread or salted meat into Hiral's hands.
"Eat, damn you," Seran snapped one night, shoving a trencher toward him. "The men will fight better knowing their commander doesn't topple over from his own neglect."
Hiral paused, blinking, the faintest curl of a smile tugging his lips as he accepted the food.
For that instant, the endless weight of planning eased, and he felt grounded—reminded that he was not merely a weapon of war, but a man among others who relied on him.
And still, with each passing day, the horizon grew heavier. The confrontation loomed closer. The air carried it—the stillness before storms, the quiet shiver before steel meets steel.
But for now, the people slept more easily in their homes, and his men marched with trust firm in their chests.
And that was enough.