The capital of Ro rose before Alexis like a long forgotten dream.
Its white washed stone walls gleamed beneath banners unfurled in his honor, streets thick with flowers and voices hoarse from celebration.
Bells rang—long, triumphant peals meant to welcome a victor home.
The people surged forward, cheering his name, throwing petals that clattered softly against steel.
Alexis did not slow.
Encased in full armor, helm beneath his arm, he rode ahead with great composure and firmness befit a general that everybody admires and looked up to.
His bearing was immaculate, his posture unyielding—every inch the conquering general they wanted to see.
Only his eyes betrayed him.
They passed over the crowds without landing anywhere, as though he were already somewhere else—somewhere hollow and soundless, where applause could not reach.
When they reached the barracks, Alexis dismounted at once.
Celebration ended the moment his boots touched stone.
"See to the wounded first," he ordered, voice steady, clipped. "No delays. No distinctions of rank. Those who cannot walk are to be carried."
He turned to his commanders one by one, gaze sharp despite the exhaustion carved into his features.
"I'll make sure that every soldier is to be compensated in full. Reassure the men that I will pay, provisions, pensions for the families of the dead—none of it negotiable."
A pause, then colder: "As for the left over nobles who are condemned for profiteering, coercion, insubordination and sedition are not to be pardoned. I don't care who petitions for them."
No one argued.
Orders rippled outward, crisp and efficient.
Alexis remained only long enough to ensure momentum took hold—then he left with haste.
Inside the inner gates, the Prime Minister awaited him.
The man had prepared a speech. It died the moment he saw Alexis up close.
The hollowness was unmistakable—not grief exactly, but the absence left after something vital had been torn away and never returned.
The Prime Minister inclined his head, not deeply, not theatrically. Just worried.
"Welcome home, General," he said quietly. "The empire thanks you."
Alexis inclined his head in return.
"You look… spent," the Prime Minister continued after a brief silence. "Get some rest. Truly. We can speak later—when you're ready."
Alexis nodded once.
That was all.
He did not wait for escort or ceremony as he made his way to his estate.
The city blurred past him—familiar streets rendered strange by distance and time.
He had already given the necessary orders weeks ago, sent ahead by trusted hands. He had ensured it personally.
The order was that Hiral would not be placed in the barracks.
He would be here.
In his base estate, not as the envoy this time, but as Hiral the opposing general from the east that Alexis always wanted to be with.
The gates of the estate opened at his approach.
Servants bowed, startled by how thin their master looked beneath the armor, but Alexis did not see them.
He handed off his helm, his gauntlets, his cloak without a word and moved through corridors that echoed too loudly.
At the far end, behind guarded doors, the room waited.
The scent of herbs and clean linen greeted him.
Soft lamplight illuminated the bed where Hiral lay—still, pale, breathing shallowly but steadily.
His injuries were bound with careful hands, healing properly and soon to recover.
Yet Hiral with his hair sticking to the side of his face, even as Alexis brushed it back from his face did not stir.
He remained unconscious.
Unaware of months passing.
Alexis stood standing, unmoving and resting his gaze at Hiral's chest.
He watched as it rose and fell in a healthy rhythm.
Then, slowly, he reached up and unfastened the last piece of armor still clinging to him. It fell to the floor with a dull, final sound.
Again, even with the loud clatter, Hiral didn't wake.
He stood there in silence, a victor before his people—
and utterly alone.
Alexis pressed his lips and took a long deep breath, then turned and left the room.
****
The bathwater had long since cooled.
Alexis sat on the edge of his bed, damp hair loose against his neck, linen clinging lightly to his skin.
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp whose flame wavered as if uncertain it should remain.
Outside, the estate slept—too quietly.
Even the night insects seemed muted, as though the world itself held its breath.
Rest, he told himself.
He lay back.
The moment his eyes closed—
Steel screamed.
Blood bloomed.
Hiral fell.
Alexis lurched upright with a sharp breath, fingers digging into the sheets as if to anchor himself to the present.
His heart thundered, loud and erratic, drowning out reason.
Again.
It was always the same.
Their blades locked, trembling—
the world narrowing to breath and eye and fate—
then the horn, the scream, the ground shaking—
his own reckless lunge, heavy with everything he carried—
And Hiral stepping into it.
Warmth exploding across his face.
Blood. Too much blood.
The soft, merciless thud.
What have I done?
Alexis pressed his palms over his eyes, breath shuddering.
Sleep was impossible.
It had been for weeks or maybe months now, he wasn't sure, and tonight was no different.
With a weary sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he rose.
The hallway beyond his chambers stretched long and pale, lanterns spaced far apart, casting more shadow than light.
His footsteps echoed softly, each one sounding too loud in the stillness.
The estate felt cavernous at night—cold, hollow, like a place abandoned by something vital.
As he walked, his thoughts betrayed him.
Hiral's eyes—sharp, knowing, always seeing more than he said.
That rare, sincere smile, fleeting as moonlight on water, offered only when no one else was watching.
His voice.
The memory crept in unbidden, gentle and cruel all at once.
Up on the upper deck—
Hiral at the bow, armor shed for simple linen, hair unbound and caught by the wind.
The sea breathing beneath them.
Moonlight painting him silver and shadow.
He had been humming then.
A low, wistful tune, threaded with ache, as if it belonged to a life neither of them were allowed to live.
Alexis had stood there barefoot, boots in hand, afraid that if he spoke the song would break.
Beautiful, he had thought.
The melody still lingered in Alexis's chest now, soft and haunting, following him down the corridor.
Then there was the necklace.
The weight of it against his sternum even now—silver koi locked in eternal orbit.
Light and dark.
His name. Hiral's. Bound together in quiet defiance of the world.
Don't open it yet.
The casual way Hiral had said it. As if the token meant nothing.
But now it meant as much as Hiral to him.
Alexis swallowed hard.
He realized, distantly, that he had stopped walking.
No—he had arrived.
His hand was already on the door.
For a heartbeat, he stared at it, startled, as if the hallway itself had guided him here without his consent.
Then he let out a breath that sounded more like a quiet, broken laugh and pushed it open.
The room was just as he had left it.
Dim. Clean. Heavy with the scent of herbs and time.
The butler probably took the piece of armor he left behind earlier.
Hiral lay unmoving upon the bed, lashes dark against pallid skin, chest rising shallowly beneath the blankets.
Unconscious.
Still. Painfully so.
Alexis snorted softly, shaking his head.
"Of course," he murmured, voice rough. "As if you'd choose now to wake."
He moved closer, the familiar pull guiding him, and lowered himself into the chair beside the bed.
For a moment, he simply sat there, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
Exhaustion claimed him like a tide he no longer had strength to resist.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead—then his cheek—against the edge of the mattress.
Just for a moment, he told himself.
Just to breathe.
Sleep took him anyway.
Not gently—but thoroughly, dragging him down into a shallow, restless slumber where his grip on the world finally loosened.
And there, beside the unconscious man who haunted every waking hour, Alexis slept—guarded by memory, grief, and a love that refused to let him go.