The wasteland lay quiet beneath a sky stripped bare of color—no banners, no roads, no watchtowers to betray the meeting.
Only wind blowing dry grass and the faint crunch of boots upon cracked earth.
Seran arrived first, cloak drawn low, posture loose but eyes sharp. He did not turn when the second set of steps approached; he did not need to.
"Tirin," he said, voice low.
Tirin stopped a few paces away, dust clinging to his shoes, the lines on his face deeper than before. He inclined his head once, then joined Seran beside a weather-worn stone that jutted from the ground like a broken monument.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"…It's taking too long," Seran finally said, breaking the silence. His jaw tightened. "We should've heard something by now."
Tirin exhaled slowly. "I know."
They both understood what went unspoken. Too much time had passed without a sign. Without him.
Seran folded his arms, gaze drifting toward the horizon. "The cities are restless. More than restless, actually." A faint, humorless huff escaped him. "Hiral would've called it encouraging."
Tirin's mouth twitched despite himself.
"The majority of the empire knows who truly helped them," Seran continued. "The soldiers. Not the officials. Not the capital." His voice hardened. "The people remember who brought grain to their villages, who rebuilt irrigation, who guarded roads when the tax collectors vanished."
"And who branded those same soldiers as traitors afterward," Tirin added.
Seran nodded. "That's the spark. Empress Shana didn't even pretend to investigate. She denounced them, condemned them, and moved on like they were expendable tools." His eyes narrowed. "People are starting to ask why."
The wind picked up, carrying grit between them.
"Hiral's status as a war prisoner…" Seran hesitated, then forced the words out. "The rumors that he's in critical condition—it's spreading faster than we anticipated."
Tirin's gaze sharpened. "Sympathy?"
"More than that," Seran said quietly. "Affection. Loyalty. Outrage." He let out a slow breath. "The question everyone's whispering now is why the officials haven't lifted a finger to bring him back. Why the empire's greatest general was left to rot the moment he became inconvenient."
Tirin nodded, thoughtful. "And every unanswered question becomes another crack."
Seran glanced at him. "Your side?"
Tirin's expression darkened with grim satisfaction. "The court is… pliable."
He allowed himself a small smile. "Exposing the major corrupt officials worked better than expected. Some broke immediately. Others thought themselves untouchable—until their ledgers and private correspondences surfaced."
Seran snorted. "Sounds like Hiral."
"I coerced where necessary," Tirin continued. "Cooperated where possible. The more decent officials are already aligned with me—quietly. They know which way the wind is turning."
"And Shana?" Seran asked.
Tirin's smile faded. "Raging."
That earned a low chuckle from Seran.
"She's hearing the word tyrant more often now," Tirin said. "And selfish monarch. It's fueling her paranoia. She's begun persecuting officials she thinks might betray her—ironically, the very ones still trying to support her."
Seran's eyes widened slightly. "She's burning her own pillars."
"Exactly," Tirin replied.
"And Hiral accounted for that. The officials he marked as useful were already protected—relocated, insulated, or armed with leverage. Every reckless move she makes isolates her further."
The wasteland fell silent again, the enormity of it settling between them.
"So," Seran said at last, "everything's in place."
"Yes," Tirin answered. "The net is drawn. The spark is lit."
Seran clenched his fist, then released it slowly. "Then all that's left is the signal."
Tirin looked eastward, toward lands neither of them could see. "We wait."
"For him," Seran said.
They stood there a while longer, two men bound by a plan too vast to rush and a trust forged through years of following one impossible general.
And somewhere far away—unknown to them yet—Hiral's breath would soon change.
When the news came that he had awakened, the empire would not remain still.
****
The council chamber felt tighter than it ever had before.
Sunlight filtered through high, narrow windows, catching on polished stone and gilded trim, yet the air remained heavy—thick with anticipation, ambition, and fear carefully disguised as ceremony.
Alexis stood at the center of it all, armor replaced with formal black and gold, posture immaculate, expression unreadable.
Around him, the Prime Minister and the remaining nobles spoke in overlapping currents.
"The people are ready—no, demanding it—"
"The sooner the coronation, the sooner stability—"
"We must consider the symbolism of the venue—"
"The Founders' Hall would reassure the provinces—"
Alexis listened.
He did not interrupt.
Did not correct.
Did not assert.
He simply stood, hands folded behind his back, eyes calm yet distant, as if he were hearing a report on a battlefield long since lost.
When arguments flared—when voices rose over dates, officiants, the order of processions—Alexis remained still, a quiet axis around which the room spun. It unsettled more than a few of them.
At last, when every detail had been argued into place and the room fell into a tentative silence, all eyes turned to him.
Alexis inclined his head once.
"I consent," he said.
No flourish. No triumph.
A few nobles visibly exhaled.
"But," Alexis continued evenly, "the ceremony will remain within a modest budget. No excess." His gaze swept the room, sharp despite its calm. "This coronation is not for display. It is to reassure the people."
A pause.
"Their safety. Their future. That is the priority. Not spectacle."
The Prime Minister watched him closely, something unreadable passing behind his eyes.
No one objected.
Some bowed immediately. Others followed a heartbeat later, respect overriding whatever ambitions still lingered.
"If that is all," Alexis said, already turning, "I will personally oversee the final compensation and honors for the soldiers. Every man and woman who fought will receive what they earned."
No one dared argue.
As Alexis reached the chamber doors, the Prime Minister stepped forward. "Your Majesty—" He corrected himself smoothly. "Alexis."
Alexis paused.
"Join me for dinner tonight," the Prime Minister said quietly. "There are matters best discussed away from walls that listen."
Alexis met his gaze, eyes tired but steady. He nodded once.
"I will come."
Then he was gone.
The doors closed behind him with a soft finality.
The Prime Minister remained standing long after, staring at the space Alexis had occupied, before releasing a slow, heavy sigh.
****
The king's study—his uncle's study, his mind corrected—was unchanged.
The same broad desk of dark wood. The same shelves of ledgers and treaties. The same tall window overlooking the capital that had once framed a ruler Alexis had both admired and mourned.
Now it was his.
Alexis sat, rolling his shoulders once before dragging a hand through his hair. The chair creaked faintly as he leaned forward and began to work.
Orders.
Compensation lists.
Medical pensions.
Land grants for the fallen.
His pen moved with precise efficiency, signature after signature pressed into ink and paper. He ensured figures were accurate, names correct.
No omissions. No excuses.
Yet, in the spaces between strokes—
A voice.
A smile.
A pair of eyes too sharp, too knowing.
Alexis's grip tightened around the pen.
The scratch of ink grew harsher for a moment before he forced his hand to steady.
Focus.
He did not look toward the window. He did not allow himself to think of a tent heavy with silence, of a body unmoving beneath white linens.
No one was there to see the flicker of strain pass across his face. No one noticed the way his breath hitched once before he smoothed it away.
He worked on.
****
Across the city, within the quiet estate that bore Alexis's crest—
A curtain stirred.
A shallow breath deepened.
Fingers—pale, scarred, and trembling—twitched against fine linen.
A breath was drawn, sharper this time.
And somewhere in the stillness of the room, consciousness began its slow, inevitable return.