With the moonlight acting as their only torch, casting long, stark shadows, Chinua and Hye were ushered into the guest quarters. The room was sparse—a wooden bed, a thick woolen rug, and a heavily bolted door with a small, barred window facing the outer camp wall. It was isolated, secure, and—crucially for their plan—quiet.
As they entered, a soldier quickly and silently used a heavy iron key to unlock the shackles, finally freeing Chinua and Hye from the cold, heavy iron that had bound them for weeks. The sound of the chains falling to the floor was replaced by the hiss of the hot water that had been hauled in and poured into two copper bathing tubs in the corner. The scent of steam and clean water was almost intoxicating after fifteen days of grime.
The guards, two grim-faced, silent men loyal to Khartsaga, slammed the heavy bolt shut. The scrape of the iron latch was a definitive sound of finality.
The moment the guards' heavy footsteps retreated down the hall, Hye dropped his pretense of brokenness. His face, still smeared with grime, tightened with concentration.
Hye began removing his filthy, tattered clothes, walked to one of the copper bathing tubs, and sank inside. He closed his eyes and let the warm water soften his tense muscles that had been overworked for weeks. He sighed happily, closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the edge of the tub with a slight, satisfied smile on his face.
Chinua walked stiffly to the bed, gently rubbing the raw, red skin on her wrists, now free of the grinding iron. She sat down and looked over. Finding that Hye had already familiarized himself with the warm water, she grabbed the clean, coarse soldier training clothes provided by Khartsaga's men, walked to the other tub, removed her own prison garments, and stepped into the water. She sat down, letting the heat begin to soak the aches from her bones, and began meticulously washing the grime from her hair and body.
Hearing the sound of water splashing, Hye knew that by now Chinua would have already been inside the tub, the constant flow and movement of the water providing an acoustic curtain against the listening ears outside. He straightened his head, opened his eyes, and lowered his voice to a tone just loud enough to carry over the splashing water.
Hye leaned back against the copper tub, the water providing the perfect sound buffer. "So," he finally broke the silence, his voice now crisp and focused, devoid of the earlier theatrical sighs. "What is your immediate plan, now that we've confirmed Dzhambul has no concrete evidence against you?"
Chinua began scrubbing the grime from her shoulder, her gaze fixed on the steam. "This explains the rush, doesn't it? Why he moved so quickly to arrest us in Nue-Li and drag us here. He knew the decree he carried—the one countermanding the King's gift of the city to me—was fake."
Hye nodded, the warm water lapping against his neck. "Precisely. The King's true messenger, carrying the legitimate decree making Nue-Li yours, would have left months ago and arrived long before our arrest. That messenger is certainly sleeping in a ditch somewhere. Dzhambul's only hope is a rushed, illegal conviction."
Chinua slowly submerged her head, washing the last of the dust from her hair, before rising, her face sleek and focused. "He must believe he has us utterly cornered and defeated," she replied, her eyes sharp. "He won't risk making his final, defining move on the King until he is absolutely sure we cannot disrupt him."
"Do you remember our expedition to the south?" Hye asked, his eyes suddenly piercing. "In Anpol City, you confided that you failed the mission your King entrusted you with because the root of the corruption was buried too deep; impossible to uproot completely."
Chinua let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh that was swallowed by the splashing water. "If we had been able to unroot it at that time, we wouldn't be sitting in a military prison's bathhouse today, would we?"
"At that time, uprooting those rotten roots was impossible," Hye conceded, his expression hardening with renewed purpose. "But now, it's possible to completely destroy them." He leaned forward, the water surging around him. "I will not only help you unroot these enemies, but I will pave the way for you. I will forge a path that is secured with unbendable steel—a path so strong that no future king will dare put his corrupt soldiers upon it."
Chinua's gaze locked intensely with Hye's.
"I said it before: if you desire Nue-Li City, I will ensure you keep Nue-Li City. If there are obstacles in your path, I will obliterate them for you. Or," Hye's voice became firm and clear, holding steady as he paused, letting the magnitude of his next offer slowly absorb into Chinua. "If you wish to rule Hmagol, I can give it to you."
He stared at Chinua, his heart silently speaking: Chinua, this is the last test for you to gain my service for life. Do not disappoint me with your answer. Otherwise, after this, we go our separate ways.
Chinua held his gaze for a long moment, then a soft scoff spread into a genuinely bright smile across her face. "My ambition is nowhere near that high. I just want peace and the freedom to stay in the East, as the Royal Father originally planned for me. During my time in the south, I learned from the Royal Third Brother that as long as the people are at peace, it truly doesn't matter who sits on the throne."
Hye's tension immediately dissolved. He smiled, a genuine, relieved warmth spreading across his features. "Then let's unroot those bad roots together and ensure the people continue living in peace."
"You are so weird tonight," Chinua said, laughing softly and shaking her head.
Hye scoffed playfully. "Yeah... I was, but I was not disappointed." He smiled at Chinua, sighed happily, and submerged himself back into the warm water, content to have secured his purpose.
On a busy street inside Ntsua-Ntu City, three riders broke away from the main thoroughfare, steering their mounts into a narrow side path. At the dead end, a small, unassuming house stood to the left, marked only by a single, dimly lit lantern flickering against the profound darkness.
The three riders dismounted, and one of them knocked a careful rhythm on the closed door.
"Who is there?" A cautious voice came from inside the house.
"It's me, peanut farm," Drystan's voice sounded, using the pre-arranged code phrase.
The door opened. "You made it," Khawn whispered, his voice low with relief. He recognized the two riders instantly. "Gen—"
Mönkhbat gave Khawn a sharp, silent shake of the head, cutting him off mid-syllable.
The three men walked inside, dragging their tired horses with them.
"How many are here?" Mönkhbat asked, his eyes already scanning for weak points.
"Ten of us," Khawn replied. "The others are inside."
They tied their horses in the small stable and walked to the largest courtyard on the right, originally designated as Chinua's private quarters. When they reached the door, Khawn opened it, revealing the dim light inside. Seated around a large table were Jeet, Naksh, Timicin, Hibo, Azad, Behrouz, Xin Yiz, Dolgoon, and Buqa.
"General Mönkhbat," Hibo said, her surprise evident as she stood up. "Did you not receive Hye's message?"
"I did," Mönkhbat confirmed, his gaze sweeping the determined faces. He realized they were already detailing a plan. "Fill me in on what you have secured so far."
Naksh, leaning forward, reported grimly, "We've confirmed that Chinua and Hye are being held at the Central Military Camp, but their exact location is still unknown."
Behrouz delivered the next devastating piece of news. "As for the others… The Crown Prince is currently being held in the South Prison."
Mönkhbat's eyes widened, the tactical map instantly forgotten. "The South Prison? That is not for royals! That facility is reserved for death row inmates and the most violent criminals. They dare to degrade the Crown Prince like a common savage?"
"No matter how brave the Sumyaa clan might be, they dare not strike the King directly," Mönkhbat continued, his jaw clenched. "Without the Royal Father, the crown cannot be suddenly shifted to Dzhambul. But... I cannot say the same for the Crown Prince or the Queen."
"My father relayed the same caution," Timicin said. "Minister Esen is currently gathering trusted loyalists to attempt to get the Queen Mother out of the palace temporarily."
Mönkhbat stared at the large map of the capital spread on the table. After a long, tense pause, he looked at the men sitting around the table.
"Timicin, you will take Jeet, Drystan, and Cong with you. Your objective is the West Palace to bring the Queen Mother out," he commanded, pointing to a corridor on the palace diagram. "This is the shortest route to the Crown Prince's courtyard. In that courtyard, there is a secret passageway that leads out of the palace under the pavilion in the garden. Use that route."
"Understood," Timicin nodded firmly.
"Khawn, Captain Hibo, Azad, and Chief Behrouz, you will form the infiltration team. You will break into the Military Camp to rescue Chinua and Sir Hye," Mönkhbat continued, his gaze sharp.
"And the Crown Prince?" Behrouz asked, his voice low.
"Naksh, Dolgoon, and Buqa, and I will go to the South Prison to rescue the Crown Prince," Mönkhbat stated, asserting his leadership over the most dangerous mission. "Whether we succeed or fail, we meet back here at exactly three hours' time."
"What about me?" Xin Yiz asked, his anxiety barely contained.
"You are to prepare the getaway carriage for the Crown Prince," Mönkhbat ordered. He looked at the men once more, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Are there any questions?"
The loyalists sitting around the table silently shook their heads, their faces set with cold, grim determination.
"Alright. We move at three in the morning," Mönkhbat said, his order clear, final, and absolute.
In the still of the night, lanterns hung brightly from the ceiling of every corridor in the West Palace, casting sharp shadows on the walk-paths and walls. The Hmagol grand palace resembled a vast, silent lantern burning in the dark abyss. Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by a cold, rhythmic thunder—the synchronized echo of soldiers' footsteps, mixed with the shimmering clang of metal armor rushing towards the West Palace.
From the distance inside her courtyard, Queen Qara heard the ominous sound growing closer. She rose from her chair, walking with majestic dignity into the center of her courtyard, ready to face the incoming steps alongside her personal maid, Gan.
Entering through the front entrance of Qara's chamber were Nugai, Erhi's personal eunuch- a maid carrying a tray with a horrifying white piece of cloth, and twenty imperial guards.
"Nugai," Qara muttered beneath her breath, her eyes blazing with scorn.
"Imbecile!" Gan hissed, her voice trembling with protective fury. "How dare you refuse to bow before Her Majesty!"
Nugai offered a malicious, unsettling smile. "Your Highness. His Highness has seen fit to award you." He allowed his eyes to drift mockingly toward the maid holding the tray. "The White Cloth."
Qara stood her ground, her face a mask of icy, royal defiance. "If His Majesty awarded me the White Cloth, then he will come and tell me so himself."
"Your Highness," Nugai purred, his smile vanishing to reveal the steel beneath. "We are not savages. Do not force us to prove otherwise by resisting."
Standing alone, with his ornate sword tightly hanging at his side, and the prepared royal decree clenched firmly in his right hand, Dzhambul paused. He listened for a moment to the weak, rattling coughing sounds coming from inside Batukhan's chamber. The sound confirmed the King's failing health, bolstering Dzhambul's resolve.
After he stood long enough to master his nerve, he slowly ascended the ten-step staircase leading to the chamber. He pushed one side of the heavy door panel open, turned, and closed the door panel behind him, sealing them both inside. His eyes were fixed straightforwardly towards King Batukhan, who was sitting at a large writing table.
"Father," Dzhambul's voice echoed in the cavernous chamber, the sound strained with a mix of false respect and barely contained ambition.
Batukhan slowly lifted his gaze. He looked at Dzhambul approaching him, holding a royal decree clenched tightly in his hand and the sword hanging at his waist. The King's face, though pale and drawn, held a familiar, sorrowful wisdom.
Batukhan sighed, a sound heavy with resignation and disappointment. "So, you have finally chosen a side?"