The air inside the Grand Throne Hall of Ntsua-Ntu was heavy, smelling of stale incense and the lingering chill of a long, sleepless night. Outside, the world was still bathed in the pre-dawn gray, the sun not yet brave enough to rise over a city that had changed masters in a single night.
The ministers of the Hmagol Royal Court stood in their traditional lines, their hands tucked into their silken sleeves, but the hall felt hauntingly empty. Where once a hundred voices would have hummed with gossip and ambition, now there were only thirty-three.
The silence was deafening.
By decree of the new King, every official bearing the surname Sumyaa had been stripped of their rank, dragged from their homes, or silenced. Those who remained—the thirty-three survivors—stood with their heads bowed low, their eyes darting nervously toward the empty throne. They were the ones who had been deemed "clean," or perhaps just useful enough to keep alive. They were no longer a council of peers; they were a group of men waiting to see if the new crown would bring peace or a swifter axe.
Suddenly, the side door to the throne hall swung open. The silence was broken by the low, heavy rumble of wheels. Batsaikhan appeared in his wheelchair, pushed by Chinua. Behind them walked Khunbish and a small guard. Chinua brought the chair to a halt before the massive, gilded throne. She and Khunbish then stepped down to join the ministers, leaving the two guards to lift Batsaikhan's frail body and place him into the chair of his ancestors.
Once seated, the thirty-three ministers performed the ancient ritual: they took two steps back, bowed deeply, and then raised their heads as they took two steps forward to face their King.
"As you all might know," Batsaikhan began, his voice echoing in the hollow space, "we have sent out a decree. No one with the surname Sumyaa is allowed to hold any rank that permits them to make decisions without higher authority. Secondly, the second prince, Dzhambul, committed treason by acting with Gerel and murdering the late King. They are stripped of their royal names. Their punishment is death."
He paused, his eyes turning cold. "Dzhambul and the concubine Erhi have fled the capital. Let me be clear: anyone who dares to host them is an enemy of Hmagol." He looked toward Esen. "Minister Esen, I leave this to you. Send out the royal decree to the nearby kingdoms. Anyone who hosts the treasonous prince will be held accountable and declares themselves an enemy of our state."
"Your Majesty, please leave that to me," Esen replied with a firm bow.
Batsaikhan's gaze softened as he looked at the thirty-three survivors. "I know that when this happened, many of you were not able to fight for us, nor yourselves. We understand that. You are not to be held accountable for the actions of others that were beyond your control."
He leaned forward slightly. "As for those who voiced for us and were imprisoned, we want to thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We cannot give you gold rewards at this time, for those funds must help the city rebuild. 'Thank you' is only words... but we want you to know we thank you sincerely."
Though his legs were useless, Batsaikhan did what no king before him had: he slowly bowed his head and torso down to the ministers, showing them true gratitude.
"As for those who fight and bleed for us..." his voice grew soft as his eyes shifted to Chinua, the only woman in a room dominated by men. "The word 'thank you' is not enough. As we sit today on this chair, it is because of your effort and the sacrifice you made. And for that—"
He paused. In his mind's eye, a vivid image flashed: Mönkhbat, with Batsaikhan strapped to his back, grunting with effort as he swung his blade through a storm of guards to break him out of the South Prison.
"We will override a decree that our ancestors have written," Batsaikhan declared. "It is not fair for warriors who sacrifice their lives to protect ours to be forced to hold their posts until their last breath, forever unable to return home."
In that moment, the voice of Hye whispered in the back of his mind, a memory of advice given in the shadows: "If you truly want to be a king that the people and ministers love, you should never forget those who fight and bleed for you, especially those who travel thousands of miles just to make sure you escape death and fulfill the promise they are forced to keep."
A collective gasp of relief rippled through the hall. Ministers began to smile, some with tears moistening their eyes. For as long as their families could remember, those serving the Southern, Western, and Eastern Generals had been lost to them—sons, brothers, and friends who never returned.
"The Fourth Princess also suggests a change in rotation," Batsaikhan added, nodding toward Chinua. "So that the soldiers at the border will have a turn to return and visit their families."
"Your Majesty," Esen stepped forward, his voice thick with emotion. "This is a very wise choice."
"Minister Esen, this idea was not ours, but the Southern General's," Batsaikhan admitted. "For years, he has done this with his soldiers guarding the Lao-Da Pass."
Chinua stood silently, a proud smile touching her lips. In her heart, she whispered: Father, you were right to have the royal first brother sits on this lonely chair. He is the most fitting son of the four brothers.
"Chinua," Batsaikhan said, finally addressing her directly. "Like the royal ministers, we do not have gold or silk to reward you now. When the kingdom is stable, we will reward you."
Chinua stepped forward, her posture regal and proud. "Your Majesty, if you follow the way of life for the kingdom as the late King did—by ruling the kingdom by loving the people who live inside the borders of Hmagol, no matter their surname or status—that will be my greatest reward."
The air in the Grand Throne Hall shifted. While the thirty-three ministers celebrated the new order, a shadow still lingered over the Northern Gate. Tarkhan, who had not forgotten that the Ginmiao were still at their walls—and that his relative, General Baterdene, was standing alone against them—stepped forward with urgency.
"Your Majesty," Tarkhan said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of relief. "As we are here to celebrate, let us not forget about the Ginmiao who are still lurking at our Northern Gate."
Batsaikhan's expression did not flicker. He looked at Chinua, a silent understanding passing between them. "We have not forgotten about them," the King replied calmly.
He turned his gaze to Khunbish. "Take our order. Tell Baterdene to stand down and welcome Captain Haitao and his soldiers to enter the city."
The hall went silent. To invite the enemy inside the walls was a move of staggering boldness.
"As for General Chong and the others," Chinua added, her voice ringing with authority, "tell them their job is done. Have them return to guard Nue-Li. Tell General Chong that after everything is settled here, I will take the time to visit Nue-Li personally."
Batsaikhan reached into his inner robe and withdrew a golden tally—the ultimate symbol of royal command. He handed it to a guard, who descended the stairs and passed it to Khunbish. Khunbish bowed deeply, the gold glinting in the dim morning light, and hurried from the hall to execute the order that would change the face of the North.
"We hope that everyone will do their part to help the citizens during this time of need," Batsaikhan addressed the room once more. "As for Gerel... after the fourteen days of mourning for the late King, he will be publicly executed along with all those tied to this conspiracy."
His voice was final. The era of the Sumyaa was being dismantled, one decree at a time.
After the morning meeting, the weight of the crown felt lighter in the presence of the dead. Chinua found herself standing before the ancestral tombs of the royal family, the air hushed and smelling of cold stone. Beside her, Batsaikhan sat in his chair, carefully unwrapping a golden urn from a silken cloth.
Chinua took the vessel—the golden urn that held the ashes of their mother, the late Queen Qara. Her movements were slow and reverent as she approached the niche of their father, Batukhan. With a steady hand, she placed the urn inside, reuniting them in the afterlife, and slid the "heaven-slide" stone closed. Standing back, the brother and sister bowed three times in the heavy silence, a final tribute to the parents who had left them to face the storm alone.
"Mother," Batsaikhan's voice echoed through the vast, chilled columbarium. "Chinua has done it. She walked the battlefield for me. She cut down every obstacle that stood in my way. She carried me to the throne on her own back. As you and Father look down from heaven, I know you will be as proud of her as I am."
He reached out, his fingers finding Chinua's left hand, giving it a gentle, grounding squeeze. "You are truly a gift from heaven, just as the meaning of your name."
Chinua turned to her brother, the fierce warrior melting away to reveal the sister beneath. She lowered herself, kneeling on the cold floor and taking his hands in hers. She looked up at him with a soft, weary smile.
"Like I said before," she whispered, resting her head on Batsaikhan's lap, "you are the brother who shared the same womb. There is no blood that runs in my veins more closely than yours."
Batsaikhan looked up at the names of his parents carved deep into the stone. He reached down and gently ruffled the back of Chinua's head, just as he had when she was a small child. He didn't try to stop the tears that moistened his eyes, nor did he pull away when he felt the warmth of Chinua's own tears touching the back of his hand.
Inside the vast, freezing columbarium, they were alone—no ministers, no soldiers, no enemies. It was a shared moment of peace for a brother and sister who had fought to protect one another since the very beginning of their journey.
While the air inside the columbarium was cold and thick with the scent of old stone, the streets of Ntsua-Ntu were warm and humid. Hye stood at the palace gate, his back leaning against the towering wall, eyes closed as he caught the faint scent of rain and charcoal in the air. He opened them only when a hand touched his right shoulder.
"It's about time," Hye muttered, frowning as he saw Chinua. She wasn't the armored general he had expected; she was dressed in a plain man's robe, her hair pulled back into a simple, functional ponytail. He shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. "I thought you'd walk out in armor. Tell me, how much gold did the King award you this time? Just so we're clear, half of that belongs to me."
They began to walk down the street together. Without their glinting plates and crimson banners, the people didn't recognize them. They were just two more souls in a city trying to breathe again.
"I didn't get anything," Chinua said, a small smile playing on her lips. "The money is needed to rebuild the capital—" she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, "—the capital we destroyed."
"So?" Hye's brow furrowed in mock disappointment.
"So, we get nothing."
"How am I going to eat?" Hye complained, throwing his hands up. "You're telling me I wasted my time waiting for you? If I'd known, I would've started begging for food an hour ago."
Chinua chuckled, the sound bright against the noise of the street. "I still have some money left. I buried it before I left the capital years ago."
"Um—that money has been underground for ten years. Is it even still usable?" Hye teased.
"Are you going to pick a place to eat, or should we head home? I need to start my return to Pojin," Chinua said, her tone shifting back to the mission.
Hye suddenly stopped. He saw a crowd gathering around a small, weathered teahouse. "I pick that place," he said, pointing.
"Why?" Chinua teased. "I thought you'd pick a grand restaurant to spend every last coin."
They pushed through the crowd, realizing the people weren't there for the food. They were gathered in a tight circle, waiting for an elderly man to settle himself onto a small wooden stage. Hye found a vacant table at the very back, tucked against the wall, and sat with Chinua.
A waiter scurried over, eager to serve the only two people actually paying for a meal. "What story is being told today?" Hye asked as he cracked a roasted peanut open.
"The Black Duck who turned into a Phoenix," the waiter said with a proud smile.
Hye chuckled, tossing the peanut into his mouth. He looked across the table at Chinua. "Oh, this I have to hear."
The small drum on the stage began a steady, rhythmic beat.
"Today," the storyteller began, his voice gravelly and ancient, "I will tell you how the Black Duck of Lake Green Fall became a Phoenix. Long, long ago, when the Black Duck first hatched in a nest of white eggs, there was a single, dark hatchling. She was mistreated by her brothers and sisters; they challenged her, saying an ugly black duck could never ascend to heaven. But she never gave up. At the age of sixteen, she and her two best friends ventured into the world to seek immortality..."
Hye couldn't stop grinning. "Hey, I love this story. Let's sit and listen to the end."
"Today is your day," Chinua said, tossing a peanut back at him. "Since Khunbish and Khenbish are obviously the frogs in this tale, I wonder which character you would be."
They sat there in the fading light, enjoying their milk tea and peanuts, listening to the mythic, distorted version of their own lives being told to a crowd of strangers. For a moment, they weren't the "Wolf" and the "General"—they were just part of the legend.
The cheering and applause of the city were a world away from the jagged, rocky terrain of the mountain road. Through the dust and the heat, a single horse raced toward Ntsua-Ntu.
The rider was slumped forward, leaning precariously against the animal's neck. He was heavily wounded; two arrows were struck deep into his back, the fletching stained dark. Blood coated the side of the horse and dripped onto the dry earth with every labored step.
The rider didn't stop. The horse didn't slow. They moved steadily through the hills, a ghost of the war heading straight for the heart of the new King's peace.