The wind bit at his face as he pushed his warhorse through the ruined streets of Pojin. With each heavy gallop, the world seemed to blur into a smear of grey ash and charred timber. It felt as if time itself had slowed down—as if his body were trapped in the dragging rhythm of the hooves, while his heart had already leaped forward, reaching the destination long before he did.
When Naksh reached the end of the street, he didn't wait for his horse to come to a halt. He vaulted from the saddle, his boots hitting the ash-covered cobblestones with a heavy thud as he rushed toward the half-burnt home.
The soldiers parted for him like a breaking wave. He shoved through the line of warriors, his breath coming in ragged gasps, until he saw her. There, lying upon the charred surface of the heavy table they had just hauled from the cellar, was his beloved—the mother of his children, Sarni.
He slowed his pace, his legs suddenly heavy as lead. For the past four days—days that had felt like four long, agonizing centuries—he had lived for this moment. Now that it was here, he was paralyzed. He approached her with a trembling hand, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He reached forward, his fingers hovering just inches from her pale cheek, terrified that the skin he touched would no longer hold the warmth of the living.
Just then, Sarnai's eyelids fluttered. They moved slowly, fighting the weight of the dark, until they finally opened to the dim light of the ruined home. When her gaze fell upon Naksh, her pale, bloodless lips parted into a soft, warm smile—a flicker of life amidst the ash.
Naksh collapsed to his knees beside her, a ragged sigh of relief tearing from his chest. His hand reached out to caress her face, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. She was alive. The woman who had been his first love, the mother who had stood like a fortress to protect their hearth, had not been claimed by the earth after all.
"Möndör..." Sarnai whispered, her voice a ghost of a sound. "My Möndör..."
Naksh grabbed her hand, pulling it to his lips to press a fervent, warm kiss against the back of her scarred knuckles. "Our son made it," he promised, his own smile breaking through the grime on his face. "He is in Ntsua-Ntu. He is safe, Sarnai. He is safe."
As he spoke, his other hand gently wiped the dirt and the grey flakes of ash from her forehead, as if he could brush away the last four days of horror with a single touch.
Miles away from the heart of Salran Pass, a narrow strip of white cloth, fastened tightly to the fletching of an arrow, danced wildly in the northeast wind. Khunbish thundered across the border between Hmagol and Payapasa, his horse's hooves kicking up a rhythmic storm of dust as he drew within a thousand yards of the border gate.
When he reached the three-hundred-yard mark—well within the range of a skilled archer—Khunbish reached back. His fingers found the only arrow in his quiver. With the practiced ease of a plainsman, he notched the arrow to his bowstring and spurred his horse into a final, desperate charge.
He hit the two-hundred-yard marker. He knew this was the "Dead Zone"; if he crossed this line, a thousand arrows would rain down from the battlements. Without breaking his horse's stride, Khunbish raised his bow, aimed for the very peak of the Paayasian flagpole, and released his single shot. The moment the string hummed, he yanked the lead rope, wheeling his horse around in a sharp arc back toward Salran Pass.
The arrow spun through the air like a blade cutting through tall grass. It flew true, biting deep into the top of the pole. The white cloth unfurled instantly, fluttering defiantly alongside the Paayasian flag.
Khunbish smirked as he rode away. He had delivered Chinua's message perfectly. From the outskirts of Kark City, every citizen and soldier could now see the white mark of Hmagol tangled with their own colors. And because of the King's law, no soldier would dare lower that flag without a direct order, fearing the executioner's axe.
He left the burden of that cloth to the confused Paayasian guards and rode back toward the horizon—to the place where the First Step of the one hundred steps was about to begin.
A few hundred steps from the border gate, Generals Jietang and Leej, followed by their six captains—Suxue, Bliang, Nhia, Daiji, Kulu, and Mingle—rushed toward the ramparts. They scrambled up the wooden stairs the moment they heard of a lone Magoli rider's "suicide" charge. But by the time they reached the top, the only shadow remaining was the dust fading into the horizon and the white piece of cloth dancing defiantly against their flag.
"A single arrow?" Mingle stared up at the cloth, his brow furrowed. "Why risk a life for a single arrow and a scrap of white fabric?"
Jietang stepped closer to the pole, his eyes tracking the way the white fabric mingled with the Paayasian colors. He turned to his men. "Does any of you know what this means?"
"Normally, white means surrender," Bliang scoffed. "But knowing the Eastern General, why would she give up before the first blow?"
"Could it be she realized the futility of fighting us?" Kulu added, grasping for a hopeful answer.
Just then, a sound drifted across the training ground from a few hundred yards away—a ragged, fading laughter. The generals and their captains froze, their eyes turning toward the single pole where their hostage was kept.
"If anyone knows the meaning of this symbol, it is him," Leej said, his voice cold as he turned toward the stairwell.
The group crossed the short distance to Drystan. Despite the brutal treatment, despite the rot and the pain, he was laughing. Daiji, his patience snapping at Drystan's refusal to break, stepped onto the man's wounded leg, grinding his boot down with agonizing force.
"Why is this dog laughing?" Daiji hissed through gritted teeth.
Drystan looked up, his face twisted in a grimace of both pain and joy. "Why shouldn't I?" he gasped, appearing to almost relish the torment.
"Tell us," Jietang demanded, looming over him. "How does your 'beloved' General plan to surrender?"
Drystan let out one last, haunting bark of laughter. He looked up with a pair of fearless eyes, the light in them steady and terrifying. "Who told you Chinua was surrendering?"
"If she is not surrendering," Nhia asked, confused, "then why send the white cloth?"
"Huh—" Drystan smiled, a bloody, wide grin. "That... hahaha... that is not a flag of surrender. And it isn't for you." He looked toward the distant spires of the Kark City. "That is to tell the people of Kark City they have three days. Three days to pack and flee, or three days to prepare their souls before the Magoli claim the city."
Daiji's boot slammed into Drystan's chest, the force sending the wounded man sprawling into the dirt. Snarling, Daiji lunged forward and hauled him up by the collar, his face inches from Drystan's.
"You are so certain your 'female general' will set foot on our land?" Daiji hissed through gritted teeth. "By the look of it, she isn't as bold as you claim. She gave us a seven-day grace period. If she were half the warrior you say, she would have charged the moment she reached Pojin."
Drystan didn't flinch. Instead, he gathered the copper-tasting blood in his mouth and spat it directly into Daiji's face. A bloody, jagged smile stretched across his lips, masking the agony screaming through his shattered leg.
"Three days to find and bury those you slaughtered," Drystan whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, rhythmic certainty. "Three days to sharpen their blades and give your citizens time to choose: pack and flee, or surrender to Hmagol. Two days for the army to rest their bodies before the eighth day."
He let out a low, raspy laugh that made the captains move closer. "And today... today is the fourth day. Chinua has never broken a promise. Not once. Therefore..." He leaned in closer to Daiji, his eyes burning with a prophetic light. "You... are a dead man walking."
Jietang stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Drystan. After so many days of brutal torture, the man before him refused to break, refused to plead, and refused to surrender. In that moment, the words of Koorush echoed in Jietang's mind like a funeral bell: Fighting Chinua will be unlike anyone you have faced before. He finally understood why Koorush had chosen to flee before the Magoli army arrived. He looked at Drystan—an already rotting man yet still laughing—and saw the true scale of the damage Hmagol's first female general could inflict. She didn't just lead soldiers; she led a conviction that could not be killed.
Jietang turned his gaze back to the white cloth fluttering in the distance. He finally understood how Chinua had earned the title "The People's Princess." It wasn't just about her bloodline; it was about the fierce, sacrificial love she held for her people.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Jietang's face. He stepped closer to the cage, his shadow falling over Drystan.
"I've heard a rumor that the Hmagol Eastern General loves her soldiers as her own kin," Jietang said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. "So, as long as we have you with us, she might destroy this gate, but she will never set foot inside Kark City."
He leaned in, looking straight into Drystan's fearless eyes. "Because when she arrives, you will be the one welcoming her. Not from a cage, Alhu—but from the very top of the city wall. Let us see if she is willing to rain her 'deadly and accurate' arrows upon the man who protected her home."
Drystan's eyes slowly scanned the generals, the captains, and the soldiers surrounding him. Then, he smiled. It was a calm, terrifying expression, for since the day he was captured, his heart had already decided the outcome of his own destiny.
"What is there to fear, when everyone here are just dead men walking?" Drystan said bravely, his voice echoing with a finality that silenced the wind. "I refuse to be your bargaining chip to be used against Chinua. Either you kill me, or you free me."