The grand throne room of the Eastern Empire glittered like a jewel carved from fire and gold.
Crimson silk curtains danced in the high windows, stirred by a wind heavy with incense.
At the far end of the hall, upon a throne gilded with phoenix wings and dragon claws, sat Empress Shana, her cheek pressed lazily against her hand.
The weight of a dozen kingdoms rested on her shoulders—yet her eyes bore the sheen of boredom.
Kneeling before her, armor glinting under the sunlight filtered through stained glass, was General Hiral. Head bowed, back straight, voice level.
"…the commoners in the villages east of the capital need grain and medicine. We've rerouted supplies from the reserve storehouses, but unless we send engineers to repair the irrigation lines, the fields won't yield again before—"
A long, theatrical sigh interrupted him.
"General Hiral," the Empress drawled, fingers tapping the carved arm of her throne, "must you always drag your feet with these charity errands? You're not a grain merchant. You're my sword."
She lifted her chin with imperious grace. "The Kingdom of Ro is already moving toward the eastern barren lands. If we delay, we'll lose strategic advantage. Handle that before playing nursemaid to peasants."
Hiral's jaw tightened.
"My Empress," he said carefully, "those commoners feed our soldiers, repair our siege wagons, tend the wounded, and bury our dead. If they fall into ruin, we lose more than fields—we lose the spine of our army."
Another sigh—this time tinged with mild amusement.
"I see your point," she murmured, waving her fingers as if brushing away dust. "Still, first take the barren lands. Then fuss over their sick goats. Priorities, General."
Hiral caught the flicker of her gaze—already shifting away, already bored again. He bowed his head lower.
"As you command, Your Radiance."
She barely nodded before gesturing airily. "Dismissed."
With a bow as elegant as it was mechanical, Hiral rose and turned on his heel.
The moment he stepped out of the gold-inlaid chamber and into the long jade-tiled corridor, they descended upon him like crows.
Court ministers—some fanning themselves, others bearing scrolls, all smiling with teeth too white.
"General Hiral, will the eastern campaign require additional levies from the southern territories?"
"Have you consulted with the Logistics Chancellor on your projected grain use?"
"Will the empress be accompanying you to the front this time, or…?"
They were fishing. Every word, a net cast in shallow waters.
Hiral answered each question with the grace of a man born for war, not games—yet practiced at both.
"The campaign details are still under refinement."
"I act according to the Chancellor's recommendations, as always."
"Her Radiance's presence is a matter of state security and her own discretion."
He gave them just enough to satisfy, just enough to mislead. Let them spin their little webs. He was done playing mouse to their silk-wrapped claws.
At last, he reached the heavy doors of his office chamber, an austere but orderly room tucked near the military wing of the palace.
The doors shut. Silence.
He exhaled—a long, weary thing that came from somewhere too deep to name.
His armor clinked as he moved toward the window, eyes drifting to the horizon beyond the palace walls. There, smoke from countless cooking fires rose from the slums outside the capital. Children, little more than bones with skin, huddled near empty soup pots. Refugees lined the outer gates, waiting for entry, for hope, for anything.
Inside these walls: gold, wine, silk.
Outside: decay.
And the Empress? Still obsessed with proving herself against the Western King, the man who outwitted her again and again before she ever took the throne.
Every campaign, every conquest, was a war not against Ro, but against her own wounded pride.
Hiral's fists curled on the windowsill.
He dared not say it aloud, but the thought rang clear as steel in his mind:
If only the Crown Prince had ascended.
A dangerous thought. Treason, even. But truth made rebels of even the loyal.
He closed his eyes. The eastern barren land—what value was there, really? Dust, scattered tribes, wind-carved cliffs. And yet they would shed blood for it. Again.
Another sigh. Deeper than the last.
How many more would die before the empire remembered the difference between conquest and leadership?
And still, he would ride at dawn.
****
The sun hung low, a molten disc bleeding orange across the endless stretch of wind-blasted plains. Near its border, just a day's ride from the Eastern Barren Lands, rows of tents stood like scarred sentinels—weather-worn and battle-silent for now.
General Hiral surveyed the camp from the slope of a nearby dune. Dust clung to his boots, and the wind tugged at the crimson sash around his waist.
Behind him, soldiers unpacked gear, some collapsing beside their mounts with grateful groans.
"Let them rest," Hiral said, handing the reins of his steed to his second-in-command. "Two months through broken terrain, sick horses, and unmarked roads—they deserve their breath."
His second, a seasoned woman with a hawk's stare, nodded. "What about you, General?"
Hiral offered a faint smile. "I'm just stretching my legs."
Inside his tent, Hiral removed his armor and changed into the clothing of the Barren tribes: a deep ochre tunic, layered with protective scarves and bone-carved ornaments at the collar.
Simple, sunproof, and unmistakably foreign to his station.
He pinned a symbol of peace—a woven cord of gray and rust—across his chest.
Alone, he rode out, veering east toward the lands destined for ruin.
By nightfall, the winds howled louder and the sand turned white beneath the moon.
Small fires flickered in the distance—tribal camps scattered across jagged ravines and wind-bent trees.
Hiral dismounted, raising his hands in peace.
His arrival caused a stir at every stop. Spears raised, tongues tense with suspicion.
But Hiral, fluent in the dialects of the region, greeted them with respect.
He spoke plainly of war, of armies approaching from both East and West. Of fire and blood that would come with dawn.
At each camp, resistance met him. The leaders were proud, hardened by wind and time.
Still, when Hiral knelt—forehead to ground—and spoke the sacred vow of the Skywind Path, their eyes shifted. He promised, as their tradition dictated, on his soul, that his words were true.
Slowly, the tribes began to move.
Three camps later, just before sunrise, he rode to the final village tucked into a rock basin, smoke curling from its thatch huts.
He slowed when a familiar print caught his eye.
A massive steed stood tied near the outer ring.
Black as coal, with hooves like thunder and a silver-strapped bridle—a Warthunder Horse.
Bred only in the Western Kingdom.
His hand went to the knife tucked in his sash, but he kept his posture casual. The tribe was awake and buzzing, laughter rippling through the air.
Then a loud crash exploded from the largest tent—and a figure was flung bodily into the dust.
"Obnoxious outsider!" a voice shouted from within.
Laughter echoed all around as the man groaned, sprawled in the dirt like a ragdoll. The crowd laughed harder as they shouted in the local tongue, "Clumsy golden-head! Doesn't know what end of a tent to kneel in!"
Hiral narrowed his eyes.
The figure sat up, shaking dust from his platinum blonde hair, and turned—
Their gazes locked.
Hiral froze. Alexis.
The General of the West.
The air turned electric.
Hiral's body instinctively shifted—one foot back, hand brushing near his blade.
His face, however, held a diplomat's practiced smile.
Alexis blinked, then… brightened.
Instead of drawing a weapon, he strode confidently toward Hiral, looking like a man spotting water after a desert journey.
"Finally," Alexis said, dusting himself off, "someone whose eyes don't scream stab first, talk later."
Hiral's heartbeat thundered, but his smile didn't falter. "You don't look like someone who fears a little stabbing."
Without warning, Alexis extended his hand.
"Name's Alexis. You new here?"
Hiral stared at the offered hand like it might sprout thorns. But after a beat, he took it—firm grip, steady eyes. "I'm Hiral."
"Pleasure," Alexis said, grin crooked, then winced and rubbed his shoulder. "Listen—if you've got the tribe leader's ear, can you pass along a message? There's going to be a battle here. Soon. They need to move, just for a bit."
Hiral's eyes narrowed. "And you're telling them this why?"
Alexis looked genuinely weary. "Because they don't deserve to be caught in the middle of something they had no part in. I'll do what I can to keep the fighting away, but… I can't make promises I can't keep. Not unless they move first."
There was no calculation in his voice. Just tired sincerity.
Hiral gave a thin, unreadable smile. "I'll try. But I make no promises either."
The wind stirred the sands gently as Hiral stood beside Alexis at the outer edge of the tribe's encampment, where the markers of sacred ground ended.
He glanced toward the central tent, where smoke curled lazily into the dawn air.
"Wait here," Hiral said, his tone clipped but not unkind. "Outside the boundary. Don't let anyone see you again, or I'll have to explain more than I want to."
Alexis gave a crooked grin, unbothered. "Sure. I'm good at lurking in awkward places."
Without another word, Hiral turned and walked into the camp, adjusting his scarf and letting the customs of the Barren speak for him. He passed through the village slowly, deliberately, his steps measured with respectful rhythm. When he reached the chieftain's tent, he bowed low with his right fist over his heart.
"I seek audience with the Keeper of the Skyfire Clan," he announced in their tongue.
"Come," answered a weathered voice from within.
Hiral entered the tent and straightened.
Inside, the scent of aged herbs and tanned hide lingered.
At the heart of the tent sat an old woman wrapped in layers of dyed wool, bone beads braided into her hair—Chief Baba Eya, matriarch of the Skyfire.
Her sharp gaze flicked up, eyes narrowing in sudden recognition.
"You…" she whispered, then barked a stunned laugh. "You are no traveler. You're my daughter's lost boy."
Hiral stepped forward, head slightly bowed. He raised his hand and signed a symbol between them, a wordless request—Do not name me.
Baba Eya's smile softened into something far more fragile. She read his silence well.
"So. My grandchild returns to the ashes... but cloaked in someone else's wind." She patted the floor beside her. "Come, come. Let this old woman see what kind of man you've grown into."
He knelt beside her, and she took his hand, calloused fingers trembling faintly.
"What brings you back, child?"
Hiral's eyes darkened. "War, Baba. It's coming. From both east and west. You must go. Now."
The chieftain's expression hardened. "That westerner told me the same. I thought him a fool with no kin in danger. Seems the fool spoke true."
Hiral lowered his head. "Please. Lead them out. It's not safe here."
Baba Eya studied him quietly. Then her eyes—aged, but piercing—grew tender with sorrow.
"You look like someone fighting a war, even outside the battlefield. You carry burdens that were never yours to begin with."
He didn't respond, just smiled faintly. "It doesn't matter now. Just go. While there's still time."
Eya sighed deeply. "Very well. But you… you're not coming, are you?"
"No."
"Then may the winds remember you kindly, Hiral. And do not forget you are still a child of the wind and wilds."
Hiral smiled and left.
Outside the boundary, Alexis leaned on a crooked tree, idly tossing stones while his warhorse grazed nearby.
When Hiral returned, his footsteps light and quiet, Alexis looked up.
"So?" he asked, standing straight.
"They'll move," Hiral said, brushing dust off his scarf.
A look of real relief washed over Alexis's face. "Good. That's… good."
Hiral turned toward his horse, ready to leave, but then—
"Hey," Alexis called, stepping forward and grabbing Hiral's wrist.
Hiral tensed, reflexes coiling with habit. A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes—at himself more than Alexis—for letting his guard slip.
But then Alexis held out a small cloth pouch.
"What is this?" Hiral asked flatly.
"Dried fruits and smoked meat," Alexis replied, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "A thanks. For warning them."
Hiral blinked at him, caught off guard again. "You're giving your rations to someone you just met?"
Alexis gave a lopsided smile. "I'm giving food to someone who did what I hoped someone would. That tribe gets to live another day. I don't regret it."
Hiral stared at the pouch, then back at Alexis.
"And what made you come here? Alone? This far into enemy territory?"
The smile faded slightly from Alexis's lips. "Because I'm tired of seeing villages burn and children orphaned for the sake of some royal madness. I didn't come here as a general. I came here… to make sure innocent people didn't pay for things they never asked for."
Hiral exhaled slowly. "You might regret that one day."
"I won't," Alexis said, without hesitation. "A life moved out of war's path… is never a regret."
For a moment, they just looked at each other, the air still between them.
Then, Hiral shifted. "Farewell."
He swung up onto his horse.
"Wait—" Alexis took a step forward—
But Hiral was already gone, his mount kicking up sand as he vanished into the rising dawn.
Alexis stood in the dust, blinking at the empty trail. Then, laughter bubbled out of him.
"He really did just ride off like that," he muttered, hands on hips. "Cold and dramatic. Classic."
Despite himself, he smiled—genuine, a little wistful.
And deep inside, he found himself hoping to meet that stubborn-eyed wind-borne man again…
Even knowing, in his bones, that it was probably impossible.