Hye's eyes stared up at the gathering dark clouds high above where he stood atop Salran Mountain. His gaze scanned the horizon, then slowly drifted down to the winding path below, where the villagers were returning from the Gate of Heaven columbarium after laying the ashes of Khawn, Od, and Muunokhoi to rest.
He didn't need to turn around as familiar footsteps approached him from behind.
"I didn't expect you to return so quickly," Hye said softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the darkening sky.
"There was nothing left to see," Chinua said, coming to a halt beside him, flanked closely by Khunbish and Khenbish. "What are you doing up here?"
"I was wondering what Ruvor thinks of each time he decides to release the rain," Hye replied with a faint, thoughtful smile.
"So, now you are playing god?" Chinua teased softly.
"Not entirely," Hye said smoothly. "Why would I want to play the god of thunder when the facts are so easy to see with my own eyes?" He turned to face her directly.
"Are you mocking the gods now?" Chinua asked, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. "Aren't you afraid of being struck down by lightning?"
Hye let out a quiet, dry laugh. "If lightning wants to strike me, so be it," he sneered playfully. He turned back and pointed toward the distant horizon. "Look, Chinua."
Chinua, Khunbish, and Khenbish followed the line of his outstretched hand.
"The clouds are gathering," Hye continued. "I once met a philosopher from Tanggolia whose theories make far more sense than any mythical god. I've tested them, and eighty out of a hundred times, my predictions have been dead accurate. I believe this time will be no different."
"What do you mean?" Khunbish asked, leaning in closer.
"Over the past few days, the weather has been scorching and dry," Hye explained, his tone shifting into that of a master tactician. "But when the air turns heavy and humid like this, rain is bound to follow." He turned on his heel and began walking slowly toward their home. "If you want Mopia Gate to fall, now is your chance—and I guarantee you won't lose a single soldier."
He paused, stroking his chin in mock concern. "Well... you might lose a few of your elite women if they happen to fall out of the sky."
"How?" Chinua demanded, her interest instantly piqued.
Hye spun around to face them again, his eyes gleaming with brilliant ambition. "We will set Mopia Gate ablaze, and then we let Ruvor—your god of thunder—cleanse the fortress for us."
"And if you are wrong?" Chinua challenged, crossing her arms over her chest.
"If I fail, I will handle kitchen duty until this war is over," Hye declared with a sharp, confident grin. "But if I am right... you take kitchen duty until the war ends." He glanced over at Khunbish and Khenbish. "You two brothers are our witnesses."
Clasping his hands behind his back, Hye turned and walked away toward their dwelling, perfectly content with his high-stakes gamble.
Now, standing on the soot-stained peak of Mopia, Hye looked out over the ashen mountain where the steady rain continued to fall. Wisps of dark, acrid smoke hissed up into the damp air. Below him, he watched a horse-drawn wagon crawl slowly up the steep mountain trail, trailing behind a vanguard of battle-ready troops.
As the soldiers drew closer to the destroyed gate, several of the younger, inexperienced recruits began to stumble and double over, violently vomiting into the mud. Others frantically pulled their woolen cloaks over their mouths and noses, completely overwhelmed as the sickening stench of charred flesh washed over them in the heavy mountain air.
Dawn broke over the mountain trail not with color, but with endless shades of ash and stone. The heavy rain from the night before had snuffed the blaze, leaving Mopia Gate a drowned graveyard of black timber and melted iron.
Water dripped rhythmically from the blackened beams overhead, each dropped plink echoing sharply in the unnatural silence. The scorched wooden barricades had collapsed into mounds of slick, obsidian-like charcoal that crumbled underfoot with a muffled crunch. As the horse-drawn wagons picked their way through the ruined pass, their heavy wheels churned up thick rivulets of muddy ash, turning the trail into a dark, greasy river. Every stone, every weapon, every piece of abandoned armor was coated in a fine, slick layer of black grease—a silent testament to the storm that had cleansed the fire but left the scars behind.
Behind them, the sun burst over the peaks in a wave of crimson light, casting eight thousand Magoli soldiers in razor-sharp silhouette along the mountain ridge. They stood motionless, gazing down at the city of Ngabo, ensuring they were unmistakably visible to the panicked guards along the battlements.
As the sun climbed higher, their silhouettes threw massive, elongated shadows down the slope, reaching toward the city gates like dark hands rising from hell itself.
Then, a single, banner was thrust into the sky. Floating high over the charred ruins of the pass, it delivered an unmistakable message to every soldier in Ngabo: the mountain belonged to Hmagol now, and there was nowhere left to hide.
Standing bound on the high city wall of Ngabo, Drystan watched as the Paayasian soldiers stood stiffly with their weapons drawn. Below, the Magoli soldiers began their descent down Mopia Mountain like living shadows. Their dark leather armor gleamed in the harsh dawn light, making them resemble nightmarish creatures crawling out from behind every tree and boulder—merging into a single, disciplined line down the pass before spreading across the foot of the mountain like a massive, expanding web.
When the Hmagol army settled into formation a thousand yards from the city walls, a single horse broke away from their front line, slowly pacing toward the three-hundred-yard arrow marker.
Drystan let out a cold snicker as he watched the enemy take their positions. He turned his head toward Phia, the left corner of his mouth curving upward into a bitter smirk.
"Now is the time to ride out and accept whatever Chinua throws at you," Drystan said, locking eyes with the general. "Your only remaining chance is to accept Chinua's terms."
"We set the terms and conditions," Phia snapped coldly, turning on his heel toward the grand stairwell.
"You lost that right the moment your soldiers stepped foot in Pojin!" Drystan barked, his voice echoing loudly over the stone battlements. He tried to turn, but the two Paayasian guards held him fast, forcing him to face the vast army below. "Your life, your soldiers' lives, and the lives of every civilian left in this city depend on accepting Chinua's terms!"
Phia merely scoffed, completely ignoring Drystan's warning as he descended the stairs. Throwing himself into the saddle of his warhorse, he waited as the heavy side postern gate slowly creaked open. With a sharp snap of the reins, Phia surged forward into the open field, galloping hard toward the three-hundred-yard marker to meet his fate.
Phia's warhorse came to a halt twenty yards short of the lone rider. He measured the individual up and down with a keen, practiced eye. The person before him was barely in their late twenties, yet the thick calluses carved into their knuckles told the undisputed story of a true Magoli warrior. The weather-roughened hands gripping the reins, the sun-bronzed skin, and above all, those fierce, piercing eyes that seemed to cut straight into his very marrow sent a sudden chill down his spine. Looking at that commanding physique and formidable aura, had he not known beforehand, he never would have guessed that the commander who had seized Kark and struck icy dread into the souls of his soldiers was indeed a woman.
"So," Phia said, striving to keep his tone steady and unbothered. "You are Hmagol's first female general. The Hmagol Eastern General... the Fourth Princess."
Rather than replying, Chinua merely let the corner of her mouth curve up into a sharp sneer. Her gaze drifted effortlessly past Phia, her eyes rolling upward toward the high battlements of Ngabo, where Drystan stood flanked by Paayasian sentries.
"You may have taken Kark and reduced Mopia Gate to ash, but you will never take Ngabo," Phia pressed on, refusing to lose his footing. "Whatever terms you bring, we will not accept. The only path to ending this conflict is for you and your army to withdraw back to Pojin."
He trailed off, realizing with a sting of deep indignation that Chinua wasn't even looking at him. Her attention remained casually fixed on Drystan atop the wall.
"When I was in Taegye City, I made my demands crystal clear to your minister," Chinua said at last.
Her voice struck Phia like a physical force—a deep, resonant, and unmistakably powerful timbre that carried through the open air. In that moment, he fully understood why those who met her only in passing or viewed her from a distance so often mistook her for a man.
"I am a person who despises repeating myself," Chinua continued, her cold gaze snapping down to lock directly into Phia's eyes. "But since your minister may not have delivered my words yet, I don't mind stating them once more: You will release my captain, and you will surrender Ngabo. You may take your citizens with you if they choose to depart, or they may remain, become citizens of Hmagol, and abide by Hmagol law."
"You know very well that those terms are not an option for negotiation," Phia stated firmly, leaning forward in his saddle.
"I am not negotiating," Chinua replied, her tone flat and absolute. "I am commanding."
Phia let out a bitter sneer. "And what if we refuse?"
"Then the vultures in Mopia Valley will feast," Chinua said, effortlessly wheeling her horse around.
"General," she called back over her shoulder, "in two days, my captain walks out through those gates, and your soldiers and civilians cross the two bridges—or the sun setting on the second day will be the last sunset you ever see."
She turned her head slowly, casting a final, deadly glance over her shoulder. "I believe two days provides more than enough time for you to clear out your people."
Reaching into her inner robe, Chinua pulled out a single silk handkerchief. She opened her palm and let it go. The wind caught the light fabric instantly, sending the white silk dancing gracefully through the air toward the silent walls of Ngabo City.