Atop the crest of the sweeping hillside, the rhythmic, thunderous cadence of a hundred horses shook the morning dew from the wild grass. Riding at the absolute vanguard of the column was Chinua, her posture perfectly aligned with the smooth, powerful stride of her mount. The early dawn light was a pale, silver sliver on the horizon, catching the cold edges of her iron armor and illuminating the grim determination etched into her face.
To her flanks rode the iron spine of her inner circle: Khunbish, his eyes scanning the surrounding ridges with a seasoned scout's precision; Khenbish, handling his mount with effortless, rugged grace; and Khawn, a silent monument of martial focus beside them. Just a horse-length behind came Muunokhoi and Od, their faces hardened by a hundred brutal skirmishes, keeping their beasts in a tight, disciplined lockstep.
Behind the inner circle, a hundred elite Hmagol soldiers rode in absolute, suffocating silence. There were no boastful battle cries, no idle chatter—only the steady creak of oiled leather, the rhythmic clink of iron stirrups, and the heavy, collective breathing of horses born for the march.
As the column rounded the bend of the high ridge, the dawn finally broke over the eastern peaks, casting long, dramatic shadows across the earth. Down in the sprawling basin below, the jagged stone walls and towering spires of Taegye City began to emerge from the lingering fog. The crown jewel of the Kosanz Kingdom sat vulnerable in the morning light, entirely unaware that the storm was already descending from the hills.
"Chinua," Khenbish's voice cut through the rushing wind. "Taegye City is just ahead."
Chinua slowed her mount, her eyes tracking the beautiful, narrow mountain road that stretched far beyond what the eye could see. There, resting peacefully against the towering mountainside, stood the first outlying stone buildings of Taegye City.
This particular region of Whitefang Peak was entirely free of rugged, jagged rock faces. Instead, it rolled out in endless, breathtakingly green hills. It was no wonder that despite being a deep mountain breach, the locals had affectionately renamed it the Grass Hill. Looking out over the vibrant, emerald slopes, Chinua silently agreed that the land truly deserved its name.
A confident smirk played on Chinua's lips. She looked back at her trusted commanders and let out a sharp, genuine laugh.
"Let's take our time and enjoy the scenery, boys," she called out, gently pulling back on her reins to slow her horse to a comfortable, lazy walk. "It makes absolutely no sense for us to arrive early just to sit around and wait for the others."
Meanwhile, outside the massive stone walls of Taegye City, Crown Prince Geming and Wang Yong stood waiting patiently alongside a formal gathering of servants. The delegation from Payapasa had already arrived early in the morning with rigid military punctuality. Yet now, as the sun climbed to its peak at noon, the Hmagol delegation was still nowhere in sight.
A scout hopped fluidly off his horse, rushed to Geming's side to whisper a few urgent words, and then immediately jumped back into his saddle, riding off back into the hills.
"They still haven't arrived," Geming noted, his voice calm.
"Your Highness, with Chinua's reckless attitude... leaving the battlefield during a time like this would give King Es Ke the absolute best opportunity to launch a sneak attack on the Hmagol army, or perhaps even reclaim Kark City," Wang Yong offered his opinion, his brow furrowed.
The corner of Geming's lips curved upward into a knowing half-smile. "If my royal uncle is truly foolish enough to attack the Hmagol army during a neutral peace summit, then having Hmagol completely take over Payapasa would be the best possible outcome for the interest of its people. A man that short-sighted doesn't deserve to sit on the throne anyway."
"Your Highness!" Wang Yong gasped, quickly darting his eyes left and right to ensure no Paayasian ears were nearby. "Please, mind your words. We are not within the borders of Tanggolia."
"We are not in Payapasa either," Geming replied smoothly, entirely unbothered.
Just then, approaching from the shadow of the city gate, Ministers Baxue and Tso walked up to Geming, flanked by a squad of ten armored Paayasian guards.
"Your Highness," Baxue said, greeting Geming with a stiff, respectful bow. "It seems glaringly obvious that the Magoli have no real desire to negotiate terms with us. If they fail to show their faces after lunch, we will no longer waste our time waiting for them."
"That's right," Tso spat, his expression sour. "If their hearts are not in these peace talks, neither are ours."
"I understand your frustration," Geming sighed. He looked up at the long, stretching mountain road, and just as the words left his mouth, he spotted movement.
Rounding the bend of the high emerald hillside, the black banner of Hmagol—bearing the fierce white face of a wolf—snapped proudly in the wind. Yet, the riders beneath it weren't marching in a rigid, menacing war formation. Instead, their booming laughter echoed across the green hilltops. They were openly enjoying themselves, traveling casually alongside a vibrant, colorful caravan of ordinary merchants.
"Ptui. Savages," Tso muttered under his breath, spitting onto the dirt as he glared at the approaching group.
Geming rolled his eyes dynamically, a genuine smile carving its way onto his lips. He understood Chinua far better than the stubborn ministers standing beside him. Chinua was the exact type of player who intentionally did things completely out of the ordinary, purposefully giving her enemies the wrong impression of her true character. It was a brilliant tactic that kept her movements entirely unpredictable to her opponents.
Geming chuckled softly to himself. Looking at the bitter faces of Baxue and Tso, he realized these ministers had absolutely no idea what kind of monster they were about to face across the negotiating table.
As Chinua and her vanguard finally drew close to the looming stone walls, they bid a warm farewell to the traveling merchants. The traders happily handed the soldiers a few parting snacks and small trinkets as they continued down the main road toward the public city gates, while Chinua and her inner circle veered toward the diplomatic party waiting on the side of the avenue.
Chinua halted her powerful mount directly in front of Crown Prince Geming. She offered him a soft, disarming smile, reached back to untie a heavy leather bladder from her saddle, and casually tossed it down to him.
"Here," she said, her voice rich with amusement. "We may not be on the open steppe of Hmagol, but a promise is a promise. There is the fermented mare's milk I owed you."
Geming caught the leather bag deftly. Looking up at Chinua, he felt a sudden, sharp ache pierce his chest. The sun-darkened, weather-tested face of the woman standing before him was no longer the young girl of yesterday—the gentle face he had carried and buried deep within his memories. He clenched the leather bag tightly, his knuckles turning white as his heart grieved. The pride of his nation, the rightful future Empress of the great Tanggolia Empire... it should have been her. Yet, he had been forced to swallow his own desires, wedding Chinua's elder sister instead. They were both daughters of the same Emperor, born of different mothers, yet it was the sister who would never truly understand his soul or speak the same heart language who now shared his bed.
Suppressing the bittersweet wave of emotion, Geming simply offered a warm smile. "You are late."
"I believe we are right on time for lunch," Chinua countered smoothly, her sharp eyes scanning the defensive, bitter faces of the Payasian ministers standing behind him. "Besides, my soldiers were having far too much fun chatting with the merchant ladies on the road. As their commander, I must always put my soldiers' interests before anything else."
"Since the hour is already late, let us proceed to the estate for lunch and postpone the formal negotiations until tomorrow morning," Geming suggested. He turned his gaze back, locking eyes with the rigid Payasian delegates. "Do Ministers Baxue and Tso agree with this arrangement?"
"We agree entirely with Your Highness's timeline," Baxue said stiffly, eager to escape the noon sun and the mocking gaze of the Hmagol riders.
Inside the sprawling, sunlit courtyard at the back of the estate, a small army of servants and maids had laid out an expansive, magnificent luncheon along a single, massive wooden table.
The first section of the long table was arranged to honor the refined tastes of Tanggolia. Elegant silver bowls held mounds of perfectly steamed, glistening white rice, flanked by heavy platters of vibrant green stir-fry tossed with savory, aromatic meats. Beside each individual bowl, a pair of highly polished chopsticks rested in neat, precise alignment.
The middle of the table featured the finest culinary traditions of Payapasa. While the food itself shared deep historic similarities with Tanggolian cuisine, the method of dining was uniquely their own. Each setting was laid with two distinct porcelain bowls—one filled to the brim with steaming rice, and the other with clear, plain water. The Payapasians dined traditionally with their hands, and to ensure both impeccable hygiene and that the sticky grains never clung to their fingers, they would gently dip their hands into the cool water to rinse them before reaching for the communal dishes.
At the far end of the table lay the robust, fiercely hearty fare of the Hmagol. Arranged on massive, deep silver platters was a literal mountain of traditional steppe meats—succulent boiled chicken, roughly chopped lamb seasoned with coarse salt, tender cuts of wild beef, and rich, deeply roasted venison pulled fresh from the wild hunt. Resting beside the mountain of meat were heavy iron flagons of warm, fermented mare's milk, its rich, distinctive aroma rising lazily into the crisp courtyard air.
While the diverse culinary traditions of the three kingdoms circulated within the peaceful, sunlit courtyard of a neutral nation thousands of miles away, an entirely different kind of storm was brewing in the dark.
Deep inside a secluded, heavily curtained room in the southern reaches of the Zasra Kingdom, Dzhambul sat in absolute silence. His eyes were tightly closed, his expression dark as his fingers tapped a slow, tense rhythm against the surface of a wooden table.
Approaching quietly from behind, Lixin wrapped his arms smoothly around Dzhambul's neck, leaning down to press a gentle, lingering kiss against the soft skin of his throat.
"Your Highness shouldn't look so angry all the time," Lixin whispered, his warm breath hitching heavily against Dzhambul's ear. "Killing two birds with a single arrow is a perfect strategy."
He leaned in closer, kissing the side of Dzhambul's neck once more, a dark, feline smile pulling at his lips.
"Even if the elder princess is forced to become a widow, the child growing within her womb still carries the undisputed bloodline of the Crown Prince." Lixin slowly tightened his grip around Dzhambul's neck, a toxic mixture of affection and malice in his touch. "I care nothing for the life or death of a mere half-brother. Therefore, you shouldn't waste your worries on a brother-in-law you never liked in the first place. Besides... with the fourth princess's impending death, it will be a free, unblemished pass for you to finally return in triumph to Ntsua-Ntu."
Lixin smiled into the shadows, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of an empire about to burn.