Smoke and ash swirl through the scorched ruins of a frontier fortress, where the Moukopl army wages its ruthless campaign. Splintered barricades and half-collapsed ramparts litter the battleground, still smoldering from the previous night’s onslaught. Blood pools around twisted heaps of armor and broken spears. The thunder of hooves and the rasp of steel on steel echo through the acrid air, as soldiers clash in desperate combat.

  San Lian, no more than a junior officer in battered plate, darts through the din. He clutches a spear in his right hand, knuckles white from the force of his grip. His hair hangs damp with sweat and the grime of fallen embers. Frantic cries pierce the chaos around him—wounded men calling for medics, officers shouting contradictory orders, the dying choking on dust and blood. Yet San Lian’s focus narrows to a single form amid the smoky haze: a high-ranking Moukopl general surrounded by too many enemy blades.

  General Tun Zol Gujel stands near a half-demolished watchtower, fighting off three determined assailants. His ornate cuirass, inlaid with swirling silver, bears fresh dents and streaks of gore. A ragged bandage is tied hastily around his left bicep, seeping red. Though he parries blow after blow with admirable skill, his footing falters—a sure sign of fatigue. At his feet lie the bodies of a handful of loyal guards who couldn’t outlast the barrage.

  Before hesitation can claim him, San Lian lunges forward, spear lashing across the nearest attacker’s throat in a brutal sweep. Warm blood spatters across the cracked stones, and the foe collapses, gargling his final breath. One of the other attackers spins around, only to be met by San Lian’s shield—a solid slam that sends him reeling. Gujel seizes that moment to lunge with his curved saber, dispatching the last of the trio in a single, swift cut.

  For an instant, the world seems to hush, leaving only the crackle of distant fires. Gujel staggers, pressing a gauntleted hand over his wounded arm. San Lian steps closer, panting, chest heaving with exertion.

  “You—” Gujel’s voice is hoarse, both from pain and from shouting orders in the past hours. “Your name, soldier?”

  San Lian wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “San Lian, sir.”

  Gujel’s gaze sweeps across the dead enemies at their feet. Then his eyes flicker over San Lian’s battered armor and the trembling set of his shoulders. “You saved my life,” he murmurs. “I won’t forget that.”

  San Lian inclines his head, unsure whether to salute or offer an arm for support. “It’s… my duty, General.” He glances around the wreckage, noticing how Gujel’s gaze seems more haunted than triumphant, as if the bodies strewn about him are a weight on his spirit rather than marks of victory.

  A nearby explosion rocks the air—perhaps a barrel of black powder catching flame. Gujel winces, as though it pains him more than his bleeding arm. For a moment, he looks to San Lian as if reading an unspoken question in the younger man’s eyes. One might expect unshakable pride from a Moukopl general, but instead there is a hint of sorrow behind Gujel’s fatigue.

  “War,” Gujel mutters. His voice carries both disgust and resignation. “No matter how many battles I’ve fought, it never grows easier.”

  San Lian helps steady him, scanning the area for reinforcements. “If we can reach the next courtyard, sir, there should be an aid station. Let me guide you.”

  Gujel nods slowly, wincing as he tightens his grip on his saber. “Very well, San Lian,” he says, quieter now. “And… thank you.”

  With that, they head toward the rubble-strewn alley ahead, shoulders braced against the ongoing strife. Amid the screaming warriors and the crackling blaze of a shattered fortress, a new bond has sparked between these two men—one fueled by bloodshed and life-saving steel, and tempered by a mutual unease at the horrors unfolding around them.

  ...

  The siege ends two weeks later, and the roads leading to Pezijil are lined with returning soldiers, their armor scuffed and pride battered by the unrelenting campaign. It is midday when San Lian, summoned by a personal envoy, arrives at the capital’s western gate. The colossal timber-and-iron barrier creaks open under the watch of black-lacquered guards in elaborate Moukopl helmets. Beyond, the city unfurls in a grand tapestry of noise and color—cascading rooftops of jade and gold, bustling markets arrayed in labyrinthine alleyways, and broad avenues filled with traders hawking spices, silks, and exotic creatures in cages.

  San Lian’s horse clops across polished stone. He cannot help but gawk at the towering statues flanking the main thoroughfare—ancient heroes cast in bronze, each warrior’s face twisted in resolute ferocity. Incense drifts from roadside altars, mingling with the tang of roasted meats and fresh fruit. Even through the city’s vibrancy, echoes of the recent battles cling to the returning troops like shadows, a reminder that the empire’s splendor is bought at a steep cost.

  A detachment of Moukopl cavalry escorts him toward a wide courtyard shaded by peach trees. At its heart stands a noble residence crowned with carved eaves shaped like phoenix wings. Servants in muted blues and greens scurry about, ferrying chests and cloth bundles inside. Standing in the courtyard, Tun Zol Gujel greets San Lian with a brisk wave, his bandaged arm now neatly dressed in silks.

  “I feared you wouldn’t come,” Gujel says, voice carrying over the low chatter of attendants. A half-smile tugs at his mouth. “But you see me a man of my word, yes? I promised you hospitality if we both survived.”

  San Lian dismounts. “Your invitation was… unexpected, sir.” He inclines his head in a respectful nod. “In the field, we were soldiers. Here in Pezijil, you’re far more than that.”

  Gujel’s smile deepens, an air of genuine warmth brightening his features. “Today, leave rank behind,” he says. “Here, we are friends. Now come inside before the sun roasts us.”

  They cross a threshold adorned with an inscription that San Lian can’t entirely decipher—part proverb, part blessing. Inside, a soaring foyer greets them: polished floors, walls hung with paintings of vibrant landscapes, and the hush of refined elegance. The hush is broken as a figure glides forward—a woman in a peach-colored robe, embroidered with subtle lotus patterns. Her hair is twisted up with silver pins. She dips her head graciously to San Lian.

  “Ah, the hero arrives,” she murmurs, voice delicate as a reed flute. “My husband told me how you intervened on that dreadful battlefield, saving his life. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Gujel beams. “San Lian, this is my wife, Lady Khaizei. And she speaks truly—had you hesitated even a moment back there, I wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  San Lian’s cheeks warm in spite of himself, and he attempts a modest bow. “I only did my duty, madam. The general—ah, your husband—fought valiantly. He needs no saving from me.”

  Khaizei’s eyes gleam with gratitude. “Duty or not, I cannot thank you enough.” She stands aside, gesturing for them to move deeper into the home. “We prepared a little welcome. I hope it’s acceptable after such a long journey.”

  They pass through a corridor lined with tall windows. Fragrant breezes drift from a garden visible on the other side of the glass, where koi ponds reflect the midday sun in shimmering flecks. Faint laughter erupts from the next room. As they enter, a young boy springs to his feet, wooden practice sword in hand.

  He is maybe five or six, cheeks still round with childhood, but there’s determination in his eyes. He stares at San Lian, curiosity and challenge flickering across his face. “You’re the soldier who protected Father?” he blurts, fists clutching the wooden hilt as if ready to spar.

  Gujel chuckles, placing a light hand on the boy’s shoulder. “San Lian, meet Bazhin—my eldest. He’s itching to learn swordplay and never misses a chance to show off. Bazhin, greet your elder properly.”

  Bazhin bows, though his eyes linger on San Lian’s scabbard. “Thank you… for, uh, saving Father,” he mutters. “Could you maybe… teach me something? A special move or a stance?”

  Khaizei arches an eyebrow. “Bazhin, manners.” But there is no real rebuke in her tone.

  Still flustered by the boy’s abrupt eagerness, San Lian musters a gentle smile. “We’ll see. It’d be my honor, young master.”

  Laughter rings out from a corner of the room. Khaizei steps aside, revealing a small cradle set near a carved wooden screen. Inside, an infant coos, eyes wide with wonder at the strangers’ voices. A nursemaid carefully lifts the child and presents him, allowing the parents a full view.

  “This is Tukol,” Khaizei says, voice softening at once. “He’s been calm all morning, but I warn you, he might wail.”

  San Lian moves closer, arms folded behind his back in awkward politeness. The baby yawns, tiny hands reaching absently toward the newcomer. “He looks healthy,” San Lian says softly. “I haven’t much experience with infants, but… I’d guess he’ll be a strong one too.”

  Khaizei laughs under her breath. “A mother always likes hearing that.” She cradles Tukol against her shoulder, patting him in a gentle rhythm. “Thank you again—for everything.”

  Gujel places a calming hand on her arm. “And now we eat, yes?” He gestures to a side table laden with fruit and trays of spiced pastries. “I suspect our good officer is hungry.”

  They settle around a low table in the lounge, plush cushions scattered about. Servants glide in with pitchers of chilled tea, filling porcelain cups that reflect the overhead lantern light. The tea is fragrant with honey and herbs, a welcome change from the bitter rations of army life.

  Gujel sips first, letting out a contented sigh. “War might feed a man’s pride, but it starves him of comfort. One day I’ll leave that behind, if I ever can.” He catches himself, as though remembering an audience is present. “But enough of that, San Lian. How are your wounds?”

  San Lian presses a hand over a still-aching bruise on his ribs. “Nothing worth fussing over. I’ve had worse.” He lifts the cup in gratitude. “Your hospitality is more healing than any tonic, General.”

  The general raises a brow. “Here, under my roof, no ranks—just Gujel. I owe you more than formalities.”

  Khaizei leans forward, voice warm but firm. “You must come by more often. We rarely have the chance to entertain those who truly appreciate a quiet moment’s rest. And,” she adds with a subtle smile, “I’d feel better if you looked after him in the field. My husband is… too selfless sometimes. He forgets his own limits.”

  San Lian chuckles uneasily. “He’s a far stronger fighter than me, I assure you. I doubt he needs guarding.” After a breath, San Lian musters a grin. “Well, if the day comes that you require me on the battlefield again, I’ll do my best not to trip over my own spear.”

  Gujel snorts in amusement. “Yes, try to avoid that. I’m not keen on scraping you off the ground in front of my men.”

  Khaizei’s subdued laughter merges with the rustle of passing servants. Bazhin stares intently at San Lian, edging closer with an almost conspiratorial air. “Please, sir,” the boy whispers, “teach me that spear trick you used on those rebels. Father won’t show me. He says I’m ‘too young.’”

  Gujel, overhearing, narrows his eyes. “Too young indeed. Someday, but not yet.”

  San Lian shrugs good-naturedly. “Your father’s word is law, young man. Listen to it, or end up with more bruises than sense.”

  A fleeting silence passes again, comfortable now—bonded by mutual respect. Outside in the courtyard, a servant calls instructions for stabling horses. The glow of midday shifts overhead, slanting sunbeams across the tiled floor. In that hush, the house feels safe, a sanctuary from the empire’s endless campaigns.

  At length, Khaizei sets Tukol in his cradle, smoothing the baby’s hair with a tender hand. She turns to San Lian, her gaze earnest. “We owe you a debt, one I can’t repay with mere tea and pleasantries. Promise me that if ever you need a friend here in Pezijil, you’ll come to us. No matter what.”

  San Lian nods, unexpectedly touched by her sincerity. “I will. Thank you.”

  ...

  Smoke curls again into a blackened sky, cloaking the rebel city’s rooftops in a choking haze. Under the merciless banners of the Moukopl Empire, imperial soldiers swarm through narrow streets, shattering doors and dragging terrified townsfolk into the open. Flames hungrily devour flimsy wooden buildings, fueled by oil spilled from confiscated barrels. The tumult of screams and crackling embers blends into a single, oppressive roar.

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  San Lian stands at the edge of a broken courtyard, spear in hand, heart pounding like a war drum. He can taste soot on his tongue, feel the heat of burning timber scorching his face. Around him, some men rummage through homes in search of loot—silver trinkets, stored grain, anything to mark victory. Others herd cowering families toward the city square. Over by a battered temple gate, an imperial officer barks orders, voice echoing against stone walls.

  Gujel’s cavalry is at the forefront of this devastation. The general himself rides a black warhorse, its flanks lathered with sweat, stepping delicately over the rubble of collapsed beams. Blood spatters his greaves. His expression is grim, eyes dark beneath his helmet’s crest. Yet even from a distance, San Lian detects no triumph in Gujel’s bearing—only resignation, as though each act of subjugation weighs on him like a chain.

  A shriek cuts through the courtyard. San Lian whips around, catching sight of two Moukopl soldiers wrestling a mother away from her children. One soldier grabs a handful of her hair; the other brandishes a torch, waving it toward the half-collapsed doorway where the children hide. A prickle of horror crawls across San Lian’s skin. He strides forward, but before he can intervene, a lieutenant steps in with a curt command to “Keep them alive for questioning.”

  It’s enough to quell the immediate violence, but the mother’s eyes burn with terror. San Lian’s stomach twists. The empire is crushing resistance, true—but what does that truly mean for the innocent?

  Horses stamp closer. Gujel dismounts nearby, breath catching in shallow puffs. Soot stains the edges of his armor. Without preamble, he looks at San Lian, reading the conflict in his eyes.

  “General,” San Lian says, voice low but trembling with withheld anger. “Did we come here to quell rebellion or to raze these people’s lives? Looting their homes… terrorizing them in the streets…”

  Gujel’s gaze flicks toward the charred remains of a stable, smoke rising in thick plumes. He speaks softly so the men around them cannot hear. “We’re following orders from the capital. This city rose in arms.” His tone strains, as though each word is an apology wrapped in steel. “This is what the empire expects, but I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

  San Lian glances around, noticing fresh bodies strewn in an alley. He can’t stop the words from spilling out: “It’s barbaric. There are families here. Children. Did they all challenge the empire? Or was it just a handful of rebels?”

  Gujel closes his eyes for a moment. Ash drifts across his face. “You’re not wrong.” A pause, then softly, “I hate this.”

  The admission is like a crack in a mighty dam. For the first time, San Lian sees raw vulnerability in his commander—this formidable general who once seemed unshakeable. He glimpses the man who offered him kindness in a peaceful courtyard, the father who teased his little boy about wooden swords.

  Gujel nods, lips tightening. “I come from a lineage the empire considers… outside. My blood belongs to a people they deemed treacherous centuries ago. I’ve grown up watching men feign loyalty to a crown that stands on the bones of old kingdoms.” He exhales, smoke swirling around him. “But I had no choice if I wanted to live within these walls. To provide for my children.”

  The surrounding soldiers pay no heed to this soft exchange; they’re too busy in the throes of victory. A distant crash signals another building collapsing under the flames. Shouts carry news of pockets of resistance, quickly snuffed out.

  San Lian’s heart throbs, torn between duty and moral outrage. “What do you plan to do, General? We’re cogs in this machine. The empire uses us to expand, to control.”

  Something flickers in Gujel’s eyes—a fierce glimmer at odds with the gloom. “Someday, I’ll walk away from it. I’ve tasted enough blood, enough sorrow. I have a wife, children… I don’t want them growing up in a world where I march off to butcher villagers. I want to find a quieter place. Far from these banners.”

  For a moment, the roar of the city’s downfall fades into the background of San Lian’s mind. He pictures Bazhin’s earnest, determined grin; Tukol’s wide, curious eyes. Khaizei’s gentle grace. It’s unimaginable that Gujel would forsake them to a lifetime of imperial conquest.

  “But how?” San Lian ventures, brow furrowed. “Your rank—your name—these are not easily cast aside.”

  Gujel’s lips twist in a weary smile. “I’m aware. But I have a plan, or an idea of one. When the time is right, I’ll leave the empire behind. Live simply, where my children can breathe free air.”

  Thunderous cries interrupt them—some imperial troops celebrating the last pockets of resistance surrendering. Gujel glances over his shoulder, noticing an officer approach. He leans closer to San Lian, voice low. “Promise me… if I do vanish one day, you’ll understand it was no betrayal, but a chance at real peace. My people’s heritage calls to me. I can’t ignore it.”

  San Lian struggles to muster a reply, unsettled by the notion of a general fleeing the empire’s might. To vanish from the center of power? It sounds like a dream or folly. Yet the conviction in Gujel’s eyes is undeniable.

  A beat passes. San Lian studies Gujel’s scarred face, recalling the day they met in a whirlwind of blood and fire. “I believe you hate this,” he murmurs. “But I’m not sure I believe you’d forsake everything. Not when the empire… needs men like you.”

  “I didn’t say it would be easy,” Gujel answers quietly. “Only that it’s what I must do.”

  A squad of imperial cavalry thunders past, hooves kicking up sparks on the blackened cobblestones. The officer who approached earlier clears his throat, oblivious to the tension. “General, the city is nearly secured. We await your command.”

  Gujel inclines his head, slipping back into the mantle of authority. “Prepare to gather the prisoners for interrogation. Set up a field post in the eastern plaza,” he orders, voice crisp but devoid of triumph. As the officer rides off, Gujel turns once more to San Lian, expression flickering with a haunted ache. “Remember this talk, my friend. Remember that I told you.”

  With that, he mounts his horse, spurring it toward the heart of the ruined city. San Lian stands alone, spear in hand, watching torches and banners wave across a landscape devoured by chaos. Above the cinders of rebellion, the empire’s flag still flies in unwavering splendor, proclaiming victory at any cost.

  For a lingering moment, San Lian wrestles with the echo of Gujel’s words. He wonders which is the greater illusion: the empire’s unstoppable might, or the possibility that a single man can break free from its endless need for conquest.

  ...

  In the lull between imperial campaigns, San Lian finds himself returning to Pezijil more often than he ever expected. The city’s gates no longer loom as forbidding barriers; they open almost routinely to admit him, the guards nodding in recognition. He goes straight to the house of General Tun Zol Gujel, navigating familiar courtyards where peach and plum trees sway under a serene sky.

  Every visit, Bazhin greets him with an eager grin and a wooden sword clutched in one hand. The boy’s eyes shine with equal parts determination and curiosity—each time, he begs San Lian to show him another trick, another stance. So they work together in the tiled courtyard, with chirping birds in the overhanging trees as their only audience. San Lian guides Bazhin’s posture, gently adjusting the boy’s shoulders and elbows, reminding him not to tighten his grip too much lest he forfeit speed. Bazhin’s face scrunches in total concentration as he attempts each maneuver.

  “Keep your knees bent,” San Lian instructs, circling Bazhin. The soldier’s voice resonates with quiet authority—strict yet encouraging. “If your stance is rigid, you’ll lose balance the moment you strike. Try again.”

  Bazhin exhales, readjusting. He lifts the wooden blade, focusing on an imaginary foe. Thwack. The sound echoes off the courtyard walls. Even if the boy overswings, it’s clear he’s improving: no wasted energy, no wild lunges. San Lian can’t help but recall Gujel’s own fighting style—disciplined, purposeful, a flourish only when necessary.

  From the veranda, Khaizei observes with a mix of amusement and pride. She stands with Tukol in her arms, the infant far more interested in nibbling his own fingers. When the lesson draws to a close, she steps forward, offering San Lian a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat on his brow.

  “If you keep training him this way,” she says in a teasing tone, “you’ll end up his second father. Perhaps he’ll forget Gujel even exists.”

  San Lian chuckles, running the cloth across his face. “Trust me, my lady, that’s impossible. Bazhin idolizes his father. I’m just a… passing sword tutor.”

  Khaizei’s lips twitch in a knowing smile. “You underestimate your influence.” Her gaze shifts fondly to Bazhin, who attempts an extra flourish with the wooden blade. “Sometimes he talks of nothing but your drills. He especially loves to boast that you once saved his father’s life—though he tries to reenact the entire scene using furniture as ‘enemy soldiers.’ I had to rescue one of my vases last week.”

  San Lian grimaces playfully. “If anything breaks, I’ll replace it. But don’t let him swing recklessly when I’m not around.”

  She pats Tukol’s back, rocking the infant in a soothing rhythm. “My boy has turned our corridors into a battlefield. I suspect you might hear of it from the servants,” she jokes, eyes alight with mischief. “Still, your presence here eases me. Gujel’s rarely at rest, and in these quiet spells, I’d rather he enjoy them with good company.”

  They turn as the interior doors slide open. Gujel appears, hair slightly disheveled, dressed in a casual robe of muted blue rather than his usual imposing armor. He glances at the courtyard scene—his son practicing sword drills, his wife smiling, San Lian cleaning a wooden blade—and a faint smile softens his features.

  “Swordplay again, I see,” Gujel remarks, crossing the threshold. “I half-expected you both to be devouring pastries instead.”

  Bazhin perks up at his father’s voice, bounding over. “Father! Master San Lian taught me a new overhead block. Want to see?”

  Gujel exchanges a wry look with San Lian, who simply shrugs as if to say: He insisted.

  “Go ahead,” Gujel says, stepping aside to give Bazhin room.

  The boy demonstrates a neat overhead parry, pivoting with a satisfying thwack as the wooden blade meets an imaginary strike. Gujel nods, visibly pleased. “Not bad at all. Maybe soon I’ll have you guard me on the battlefield, hmm?”

  Bazhin beams, puffing out his chest. Khaizei rolls her eyes, though the corner of her lips curls in a fond grin. She turns and coaxes Bazhin toward the veranda, promising him some fresh fruit if he helps put away the training swords.

  Watching them go, Gujel’s expression shades with pensive quiet. San Lian senses the shift—like a faint wind blowing over a calm lake. The general beckons him inside, to a smaller side room lit by paper lanterns. A servant discreetly enters with a tray carrying a jug of spiced wine and two cups, sets it down, and retreats without a word.

  “Join me?” Gujel says, pouring a portion into each cup. The deep amber liquid gleams under the lantern’s glow.

  San Lian takes the proffered drink, noting the subdued tension that’s crept into Gujel’s shoulders. He raises the cup to his lips, inhaling the heady aroma of cloves and cinnamon. “Should we toast to anything in particular?”

  A short laugh escapes Gujel’s throat. “Perhaps to surviving another day without the empire sending us off to another siege. To fleeting peace.”

  ...

  Cicadas drone in the late-summer heat that blankets Pezijil, making the air shimmer around rooftops of tile and polished stone. San Lian dismounts at Gujel’s courtyard gate, handing the reins of his dun-colored mare to a stable-hand. His movements are sure, but an observer might note subtle changes since he first stepped here years ago: deeper lines at the corners of his eyes, a quiet weariness in his step. Time has passed, bringing campaigns and temporary truces, forging deeper ties between soldier and general.

  Inside, laughter filters through an open doorway, warm as a hearth fire. San Lian follows the sound to find a familiar scene in the courtyard: Bazhin, now on the cusp of manhood, brandishing a real blade with evident pride. He executes a practice form in smooth arcs, each slash precise—shoulders strong, stance set. A growth spurt has stretched him almost as tall as Khaizei, who watches from under a peach tree with an indulgent smile.

  “Your cut is too wide,” San Lian remarks, stepping onto the sun-baked tiles. He can’t help offering advice the moment he sees an imperfection. “Don’t let your elbow flare out, or you’ll lose speed.”

  Bazhin halts mid-swing, blinking sweat from his eyes. With a grin both respectful and faintly competitive, he tries again—this time sharper, more compact. “Better?” he asks, chest heaving.

  “Much,” San Lian answers. “Keep your weight forward.”

  A voice pipes up from a shaded alcove: “Or you could just read some scrolls about sword techniques,” Tukol suggests. He sits cross-legged on a woven mat, a slender book balanced on his knees. Now around four years old, the child shares his mother’s keen gaze. “I found a treatise in Father’s library describing footwork that could improve your pivot.”

  Bazhin snorts, sheathing his blade. “I’d rather learn from real swords, not pictures in old scrolls,” he says, though there’s no malice in his tone. He steps away from the practice circle, grabbing a cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  Tukol shrugs, nose buried back in his book. Despite the summer heat, he seems content to remain indoors with volumes of knowledge. His slender fingers turn pages gently, eyes flicking over lines of calligraphy with rapt focus.

  Khaizei stands, smoothing her embroidered robes. She gives San Lian a friendly nod. “You’re late,” she teases. “I was starting to worry you got caught in some new assignment. Bazhin nearly tore the yard apart waiting to show off his progress.”

  “Blame the governor’s scribes,” San Lian replies wryly. “They insisted I report details of the last campaign. And you know how much they love to bury men in parchment.”

  She sighs, rolling her eyes. “Ah, yes, those same scribes keep pestering Gujel with supply tallies and new orders. They act as if he has no life beyond marching to the empire’s tune.”

  Bazhin, overhearing, frowns. “Father’s in meetings again?” He stabs the tip of his sheathed blade against a loose cobblestone, a restless gesture. “When will he be free? I wanted to show him my form.”

  Khaizei’s smile falters for a fraction of a heartbeat. “He should be done soon. Maybe you can join him in the study once you’ve cooled off.”

  A faint voice echoes from a corridor beyond: “If I ever escape these endless ledgers, yes!” Gujel emerges, posture slightly weary, but a grin lighting his face at the sight of his children.

  Tukol’s eyes lift from his book, brightening at his father’s arrival. Gujel strides across the courtyard, ruffling Bazhin’s hair, then placing a gentle hand on Tukol’s shoulder. “Reading another treatise, are you? One day, you’ll surpass even your grandmother’s intellect if you keep this up.”

  Tukol shifts shyly, the corner of his mouth curving in a small smile. “It’s a history of the western provinces.”

  Gujel’s brow arches, then he turns, addressing San Lian with a flash of warmth. “I was hoping you’d visit soon. Word reached me that you handled an uprising along the trade route north?”

  San Lian inclines his head in a half-bow. “If you can call it an ‘uprising.’ Mostly underfed peasants rallying behind a desperate warlord. We took them by surprise—no real threat.” He hesitates, aware that the children are listening. “Minimal bloodshed, but still…”

  Gujel’s gaze flicks to Bazhin, then Tukol, and he lowers his voice. “Let’s speak more of that later,” he says quietly, clapping San Lian on the shoulder. “For now, join us for a meal. Then maybe we share a cup or two in my study.”

  “Gladly,” San Lian answers, relief easing some of the tension from his body.

  ...

  Morning breaks over Pezijil with a quiet hush, the rising sun painting rooftops in gentle rose hues. Yet in Gujel’s household, unrest roils like a maelstrom. Servants race through corridors clutching lanterns from the long night’s fruitless search, faces drained of hope. The courtyard, once echoing with Bazhin’s sparring cries, stands eerily still. A few scattered footprints mar the soft earth by the stables—faint impressions leading toward the back gate.

  San Lian arrives amidst this turmoil, his breath coming in tense bursts. He senses the dread even before he crosses the threshold. A house steward greets him, voice shaking, urging him to hurry inside. Past the hall and into the center salon, he finds Khaizei kneeling on the polished floor, tears streaking her cheeks. Bazhin hovers at her side, eyes red but jaw set, as though forcing himself not to crumble.