The oppressive heat of the late summer sun burned against the back of Phia's neck, casting his long, fragile shadow across the dirt before him. It flickered in the passing wind—a quiet, ghostlike silhouette waving farewell in the morning light.
He stood on the muddy banks of the river, facing the distant border of Zouis City. Just across the water, thousands of Paayasian refugees—his people—were trapped, stranded in the open fields because King Es Ke had ordered the city gates barred shut against them.
Among that sea of desperate, huddled souls stood his wife and children.
He knew his time had finally run out. Standing tall before the executioner, he fixed his gaze straight across the river onto his family. A proud, defiant smile touched his lips, masking the heavy tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He understood the unyielding law of war: the victors live, and the fallen die.
Yet, as he looked upon his family one last time, there was no regret in his heart. His death today was not in vain. One general's life surrendered so that thousands of his soldiers could live—one husband lost so that a sea of Paayasian wives would never have to shed these same bitter tears.
Phia knew his end drew near as the morning sun climbed higher, slowly shifting toward noon.
Noon was when he had been ordered by his king to execute Drystan—severing the head of one of Hmagol's most beloved captains. In hindsight, perhaps that single act of cruelty was the true spark that reduced Ngabo to ruins. The fury of the Magoli army had burned like wildfire, tearing through every inch of the city in vengeance for their fallen brother.
Yet, against all odds, their commander possessed a far purer soul than his own king.
Chinua had shown a leniency rarely granted in war. Phia knew with terrifying certainty that if any other conqueror had breached Ngabo, he would not be standing here now, granted one final look at his wife and children, and given the dignity of an honorable death. Instead, he would have been the lone survivor of his six thousand men, paraded in chains and humiliated like the broken prisoners of war he had so often witnessed. Chinua had given his men their lives—and granted him a warrior's end.
Phia closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh mountain air to clear his mind as he accepted his fate, waiting for noon to approach.
The soft crunch of footsteps echoed against the dirt, making their way around him before coming to a stop directly in front. Phia opened his eyes and found Hye standing before him, holding a woven basket in his hands with a warm, gentle smile on his face.
"Untie his hands," Hye said, looking at the young soldiers flanking the prisoner.
The guards moved quickly, unbinding the thick ropes behind Phia's back. Phia rubbed his tired, chafed wrists, looking up at the unarmed strategist.
"Are you not afraid I will fight my way out?" Phia asked.
Hye smiled and gave a soft shake of his head. "Even if we built you a bridge to cross right now, you wouldn't dare take a single step."
Lowering himself onto the ground, Hye sat directly across from Phia. He opened the lid of the basket and carefully pulled out three wooden bowls—steam rising from the warm dishes inside.
"In Magoli culture, no matter who you are, if you carry a death sentence, you are still entitled to your last meal," Hye said, gesturing toward the food. He reached into the basket, pulled out a small earthen bottle, popped the stopper, and poured the rich liquid into a cup.
Phia slowly sat down as Hye pushed the bowls toward him. He stared at the man across from him and chuckled softly under his breath.
"So, what does it take for a mind like yours to bend your knee and serve a Magoli commander—especially a woman?" Phia asked, reaching for a bowl of rice and taking a bite.
"Anyone can have my services, but not everyone is willing to pay the price for them," Hye replied with a faint smile, handing Phia the poured cup. He picked up his own cup and took a slow sip. "No wine in the land is finer than Paayasian rice wine."
Phia threw back his head and downed the wine in one big gulp, placing the empty cup back on the dirt.
"May I ask what that price is?" Phia asked, chuckling again. "I am about to die, and I would prefer not to go with doubts. Why is a man as brilliant as you willing to serve a Magoli king who offers so little?"
"First, I serve no king," Hye said, his eyes locking directly onto Phia's. "Second, I crave no fame. And third, I refuse to take orders from those who do not share my vision."
Phia paused, continuing to eat as he pondered the words. "So, tell me... what is the price one must pay for your services?"
"The price for my services is simple," Hye said, a quiet smile gracing his face. "No harm to surrendered enemy soldiers. No harm to surrendering civilians. No war crimes. And the punishment for anyone who breaks these rules... is death."
Phia froze for a fraction of a second, then broke into a deep, booming laugh. The truth washed over him—the real reason his three thousand men were still breathing, and the reason he was sitting here on the riverbank enjoying a warm meal in his final hour.
"Brilliant! Brilliant!" Phia declared, his laughter echoing across the river. "The most brilliant and perfect payment I have ever heard!"
After a moment of shared laughter, the humor slowly settled into a quiet, profound reverence. Phia looked at Hye, a gentle smile gracing his features.
"Although our time together was brief, it has been an absolute honor to know a man like you," Phia said, his voice warm. "Our meeting may have come too late in this life, but it gives me peace to know that men still exist who share these principles."
Rising slowly to his feet, Phia brought his palms together, cupped his hands, and offered Hye a deep, formal bow.
"Thank you," Phia whispered, "for sparing the lives of the soldiers and civilians of Ngabo."
Across the water, the thousands of Paayasian refugees and stranded soldiers watched the riverbank in stunned, silent disbelief. They could not fathom why their most loyal, stubborn general—a warrior who would never bend his knee to an invader—was bowing with such profound respect to a Magoli scholar of no military rank.
"Sir Hye," the executioner called out softly from the side. "The hour has arrived."
Hye rose gracefully from the dirt, taking one last long look at the man standing before him.
"No hard feelings," Phia said with a faint nod. "We fought on opposite sides, and the outcome of this war is no fault of the soldiers or their commanders—it is the fault of the man sitting upon the golden throne, who did not share our vision."
Hye offered a single, respectful nod. Turning, he walked back to the line of troops where Zhi, Yisü, and Khartsaga stood solemnly among the Magoli ranks.
The executioner stepped up to Phia's side, drawing his heavy blade. "Any last words? Now is the time to speak them."
A soft, bitter chuckle escaped Phia's lips as the irony hit him. They were the exact words he had spoken to Drystan before severing his head on the battlements. Looking across the rushing river one final time at his countrymen, his family, and his stranded troops, Phia raised his chin.
"Paayasians!" he called out, his voice ringing strong and true across the water. "I am at peace!"
The executioner swung his heavy steel blade in a single, fluid arc. It cleaved clean through, and Phia's head tumbled onto the soft grass a few yards from his fallen body.
A heartbeat of absolute silence held the valley—before heavy, collective sobs broke out along the far riverbank, echoing endlessly against the cliffs.
Hye stood among his soldiers, staring at the fallen body of the noble general as the wind whispered across the water. Softly, under his breath, he spoke:
"The clock struck late, the shadows fell,
A final glance, a brief farewell.
Two paths that crossed too far apart,
With fading beats in one still heart.
We trace the lines of what could be,
One ship adrift upon the sea.
The timing wrong, the anchor cast,
This briefest moment is our last."
Far from the mournful sobs ringing along the border of Ngabo, the streets of Ntsua-Ntu presented a vastly different scene.
With thick iron shackles binding his wrists and ankles, Gegeen stumbled down the stone avenue—forced to endure the walk of shame, the ultimate retribution for any Magoli who committed treason against their own blood.
The angry cries, cursed words, flying refuse, and pointing fingers of the crowd erupted into a deafening roar. Civilians of every walk of life—from merchants and laborers to grieving families of fallen soldiers—lined the thoroughfare, their faces twisted in fury as Gegeen was paraded toward the central execution grounds.
"Traitor!"
"Shame on your ancestors!"
"Murderer!"
Each step was heavy, the iron chains clanking loudly against the cobblestones, but the hatred in the air was far heavier. Gegeen kept his head low, his eyes fixed on the dirt beneath his bruised feet, unable to look upon the people he had betrayed. Gegeen walked to his doom carrying nothing but the disgust of his own homeland.
Gegeen's pace slowed to a dead crawl as his eyes landed on the execution platform. Standing an arm's length apart were two thick wooden poles embedded deep into the stone floor.
"No—" Gegeen gasped, his chest heaving. "No!"
Blind, suffocating terror overtook him. The palace guards shoved him forward, but Gegeen dug his heels into the dirt, refusing to take another step. Frustrated, the two guards flanking him seized him by the arms, violently dragging his dead weight across the ground as he began to scream and plead for his life.
"They were only unit leaders!" Gegeen shrieked, his voice cracking with desperation. "I am a minister! My rank is higher than theirs! Your Majesty, please! Spare my life!"
Six more palace guards stepped forward, pinning his thrashing limbs. They dragged him up to the wooden posts, binding his wrists and ankles tightly to the heavy timber until he was stretched wide, completely exposed to the bloodthirsty crowd.
The head eunuch stepped up to the edge of the platform, unrolling a heavy silk scroll. His voice cut through the roaring square with cold, absolute authority:
"Gegeen, a traitor of Hmagol, is hereby stripped of all rank, title, and honor. He colluded with the traitor Dzhambul, committing unspeakable crimes across our borders by plotting the assassination of Hmagol's Eastern General, Princess Chinua. Because of his treason, three brave Magoli unit leaders sacrificed their lives for the realm. He has brought infinite shame upon his ancestors and his homeland. His Majesty has officially granted the request of the Eastern General: Gegeen shall be executed by arrow fire."
The eunuch lowered the scroll, looking toward the line of archers, and gave a sharp, deliberate nod.
"Let me go!" Gegeen screamed, thrashing against the ropes binding him to the posts. "Your Majesty, please show mercy! Mercy!"
Twenty archers stepped forward, pulling back their heavy bowstrings. In accordance with Chinua's strict command, they aimed away from his heart and throat—ensuring the traitor would bleed out and die a slow, agonizing death.
A collective snap echoed across the square as twenty bowstrings released at once. A chorus of whistling steel sliced through the air, followed immediately by Gegeen's agonizing shrieks as the first volley found its mark.
As the sun rose on the next day, a gentle mountain breeze swept across Pojin. The pale smoke from chimneys throughout the town drifted up to meet the morning sky, blending with the distant echoes of livestock, sheep, and early morning chatter.
Standing before the open-air columbarium, Chinua carefully placed a golden urn inside its stone niche. At the base of the urn, she arranged three golden plates—each the size and length of two fingers—before slowly sliding the heavy stone door of the niche into place.
"Do you think he regrets it?" Chinua asked softly, her eyes fixed on the name carved into the stone door.
"Anyone serving under you would have no regrets," Hye answered, standing a half-step behind her in the morning light.
Chinua turned her gaze to him. "What about you?"
"I do have a few regrets," Hye said, his tone light.
"Like what?"
"I regret that you refuse to become King," Hye teased, a faint glint in his eye. "If you were King, there would be no need to wait for anyone's permission. You would be the supreme commander of all military forces in Hmagol."
A tiny, knowing smile touched the corner of Chinua's lips as her eyes drifted across the nearby niches holding Khawn and Drystan. "Sounds fair. I have no regrets about our meeting, nor will I have any about our eventual parting. And I certainly don't regret refusing your ridiculous demand for me to be King. Besides... if I were King, I would never have befriended someone like you."
Hye chuckled softly. "That is entirely fair," he conceded, glancing over at his own empty niche waiting along the stone wall.
Side by side, Chinua and Hye began walking back, crossing the small wooden bridge toward the stone stairwell at the entrance of the burial grounds.
Just before reaching the steps, Hye came to a sudden halt. As she always did whenever he stopped to reflect, Chinua paused beside him. The mountain breeze brushed past them, carrying the quiet peace of the morning.
"How many more sunrises and sunsets will I witness before I finally rest here with the others?" Hye murmured into the open air.
Chinua looked out at the morning light. "No matter how many suns remain for us to count," she said quietly, "remember this: I will always count those suns beside you. And when one of us finally counts our last, we shall have no fear. For in life, we witnessed the sun rise and set together—and in death, we will watch it rise and set forever."
A warm, genuine chuckle broke from Hye. Reaching out, he draped his arm over Chinua's shoulder, pulling her into a brief, affectionate side embrace.
"At the end of the day, no one understands me better than you," Hye whispered. "In this life, I do not regret bending my knee for you, my dear Princess."
He smiled, withdrawing his hand, and began walking down the stone stairwell ahead of her. As his boots clicked lightly against the steps, he softly quoted:
"The ticking clock slows down its beat,
A gentle breath, a steady mind.
He wonders when the two shall meet,
The world before, the peace behind.
No fear attends the quiet wait,
Just wonder at the closing day.
He smiles beside the open gate,
And softly dreams his time away."