As the sun shifted toward the east, casting the long, jagged shadows of the city walls and the spires of Ntsua-Ntu over the smaller dwellings below, a heavy silence fell over the capital. The fleeing civilians, who had huddled in cellars or fled beyond the outskirts, began to trickle back into their neighborhoods.
They walked through streets layered in soot and debris, their eyes searching for the familiar corners of their lives. For some, there was a tentative relief; they found their doors still standing and their hearths intact. But for many others, the "luck" of the war had been cruel. They returned only to find blackened skeletons where their homes had once been—partially scorched walls or piles of ash that had been leveled to the ground by the crossfire of the civil war.
In the lengthening shadows, the true cost of the "Golden Bird's" rebellion was finally visible: not in the halls of power, but in the ruined lives of the people who had simply tried to survive it.
Hye walked down the street, moving steadily away from the distant roar of the celebration at the palace. The further he moved, the quieter the cheers became, replaced by a much heavier sound: the low, jagged sobbing of those who had returned to find nothing but ghosts.
He witnessed the reality of his handiwork. He saw a woman kneeling in the soot, her fingers sifting through the charred remains of what had once been a family heirloom. He saw children sitting on doorsteps that led to nowhere, their faces smeared with the gray dust of the city. To them, the war wasn't a map of arrows and maneuvers; it was the dark ashes of their entire lives, caught in a gust of wind and swept into the gutter.
The cries of the people echoed in his ears, vibrating against the stone walls. Hye did not look away. He knew the cruelty of the reality he had helped craft. He knew that for these people, the "victory" felt like a hollow word.
Yet, as he pulled his cloak tighter against the swirling ash, his expression remained as unreadable as a frozen lake. He knew that his plan—though heartless to the few—was the ultimate choice to secure the many. To give these crying voices a future where they wouldn't have to fear a different "wolf" every ten years, he had to be the one to burn the old world down.
Hye's eyes remained fixed on the people, imprinting their grief into his heart like ink on parchment. He felt a deep sorrow for those whose homes were now nothing more than piles of gray ash, yet his heart remained free of guilt. He had made a bargain with fate, and he knew the terms: A home can be rebuilt, and belongings can be replaced, but a life, once lost, can never be returned.
Then, a small figure broke through his thoughts.
A young boy stood in the center of the street; the weight of his younger sibling pressed against his back while he clutched the hand of a four-year-old girl. They stood silently, watching their parents claw through the blackened remains of their house, searching for anything—a copper pot, a cracked pan—that had survived the fire.
"Hungry..." the youngest whispered.
The boy looked down at his sister and managed a gentle, weary smile. "Wait a while, okay?" he said softly. "If mother and father find anything useful, we can trade it for rice."
Hye felt a sudden weight against his chest. He reached into his robe and felt the roasted sweet potato and the piece of bread he had tucked away earlier that morning. In the rush to join Chinua and enter the city, his lunch had been forgotten. He pulled the white cloth bundle out and approached the children.
"Hungry?" Hye asked.
The boy reacted instantly, pulling his sister behind his back, his eyes wide with the instinctive fear of a cornered animal.
Hye softened his expression, offering a rare, genuine smile. "Don't be afraid of me, children." He slowly unwrapped the cloth, revealing the warm potato and the bread. "You can have it."
The boy hesitated, his fingers twitching, torn between hunger and suspicion.
"Go on," Hye urged. "It is yours."
"Dear Sir!" the mother cried out, rushing from the ruins with her husband close behind. "I am sorry if my children were bothering you!"
"Madam, they didn't bother me," Hye said, bowing slightly. "I was simply offering them a meal."
The mother looked at Hye, then at the golden-brown bread. She knew the sting of shame that came with accepting charity, but she looked at the hollow cheeks of her daughter and knew she could not afford pride today.
"Thank you, sir," she said with a trembling, soft smile, taking the food and dividing it among the small hands reaching out. "During times like this, it's rare for anyone to give away their own sustinence. Truly, thank you."
Hye smiled and began to walk away. He watched his own shadow stretch across the dirt, merging with the jagged silhouettes of the ruined houses. But after a few paces, he stopped. He turned back, his voice rising, shedding its quiet scholar's tone for something that commanded the entire street.
"Citizens of Ntsua-Ntu! Worry not!" His voice bloomed across the silence, drawing faces to every window and doorway. "The homes ruined in this war will be rebuilt. For those with nowhere to sleep tonight, Chinua will provide shelter until your hearths are warm again."
He looked at the crowd, his gaze steady and promising. "Right now, Chinua is in the palace, securing the peace. Once the state is settled, your welfare will be her first priority. Do not lose heart. Give her the time she needs to rebuild what was lost, and she will give you a kingdom worth living in."
"Is what you say true?" a middle-aged man asked, his voice wavering between hope and the deep skepticism of a man who had lost his livelihood.
"Yes, it is true," Hye said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of absolute certainty. He stepped closer to the group, looking them in the eye. "You might think that Chinua ruined your home, but you must think of the long run. Before she ever struck the city, Chinua gave a three-day window. She pleaded for those behind the walls to surrender and let the Crown Prince return, or to open the gates and let you—the heart of this city—leave in peace."
He saw the flicker of realization in their eyes. They remembered the silence of the last three days. They remembered being trapped.
"But—" Hye's voice dropped, becoming dark and sharp. "Gerel Sumyaa thought otherwise. He conspired with the Second Prince to murder the late King. He refused to welcome the rightful heir, choosing instead to prop up a puppet. And finally, he refused to let you escape the coming fire. To restore peace, to keep Hmagol strong, and to honor the legacy his late Majesty left behind, Chinua had no choice but to attack."
He paused, letting the silence of the ruined street emphasize his words. He watched the anger in their faces shift. It was no longer directed at the soldiers in the palace; it was turning toward the name Sumyaa.
As Hye paused, the atmosphere in the ruined street shifted. The people, who had been hunched over their rubble like broken statues, began to straighten.
A middle-aged man, whose hands were still stained black from trying to save his charred belongings, let out a shaky breath. His eyes, previously clouded with the hollow stare of the defeated, began to sharpen with a new, burning light. He wasn't looking at the ruins anymore; he was looking at the palace with a growing, cold fury.
The mother, still holding the bread Hye had given her, stopped chewing. Her face, pale and lined with exhaustion, tightened. When Hye mentioned the "murder" of the late King and the "kind terms" Chinua had offered, her jaw set into a hard line. A tear tracked through the soot on her cheek—not out of sadness this time, but out of a mother's rage at being used as a shield by a coward.
Whispers began to ripple through the crowd. Faces that had been masks of despair were now turning toward one another, nodding as the "truth" sank in.
"The Sumyaa locked the gates?" an old woman hissed, her voice trembling with indignation. "They kept us here to burn while they sat in their silk?"
By the time Hye finished, the silence was no longer heavy with grief—it was vibrating with the energy of a storm about to break. The people looked at Hye not as an intruder, but as a messenger of the only justice they had left. The "Golden Bird" they once feared was now nothing more than a thief who had stolen their peace, and Chinua—the woman who had broken their walls—was now the only one they trusted to rebuild their lives.
"Your hearts hurt as you return to find your homes ruined," Hye continued, his tone softening into a dangerous kind of empathy. "Then how much must Chinua's heart ache? She swore an oath to protect these streets. Your pain and your anger are hers as well. But unlike the coward who has likely already fled the city, Chinua will stay. She will stand in the dust with you until every stone is replaced and every hearth is warm again."
As the echoes of his speech died down, Hye stood motionless, watching the fire ignite in the eyes of the citizens. The despair that had hung over the street like a fog was gone, replaced by a heat that could melt iron. He saw the middle-aged man's knuckles turn white; he saw the mother's grief harden into a shield.
Hye watched as the spark he had thrown into the crowd finally caught fire. The people were no longer looking at him; they were turning to one another, their voices rising in a shared, heated growl of indignation. The "Sumyaa" name was being dragged through the soot of the very streets they had helped destroy.
Satisfied that he was no longer the center of their attention, Hye stepped back. He didn't turn and run; he simply receded, his dark robes merging with the charcoal-colored shadows of a burnt-out alley. He became a ghost in his own city, a shadow moving through shadows, heading toward the end of the street where Chinua's home stood—a small island of quiet in a kingdom that had just been loud with the sound of a new era beginning.
Hye knew his plan was finally in motion. The pieces were no longer on the board; they were moving on their own.
Behind his calm, scholarly mask, his mind was already calculating decades ahead. He understood the bitter truth of royalty better than anyone: in the line of kings, no one is ever truly safe unless they are the one sitting on the throne. Even a brother's love can be poisoned by the weight of a crown.
If the day ever came when Batsaikhan turned his back on the woman who had carried him to power—if the new King ever tried to stab Chinua in the back—he would find a kingdom that refused to let him. By planting Chinua's image in the hearts of the commoners today, Hye was ensuring that she would never stand alone. If the palace ever betrayed her, the entire population of Hmagol would be her shield.