The train tracks had cut through Radscha's inner wall. Five years ago, under a winter moon, a coal loaded train rolled along those rails without banners or escort. No lanterns hung from its sides. No names were recorded. A single silent passenger slipped in with it, hidden between iron and shadow.
No one in Radscha noticed.
Now, years later, the southern wall cut the morning in half.
Dust drifted low across the stone ramparts, settling into the grooves of iron and mortar worn smooth by neglect. The South Gate—rarely used for diplomatic passage—stood half-lifted. Heavy chains groaned as soldiers worked the winch, their shoulders tightening with every pull. Metal scraped against stone, slow and unwilling.
The peace envoy had arrived through this very gate, not the North as tradition required. It is too sudden.
Then at first light, sealed orders redirected the entire delegation south.
No explanation.
Just unreasonable demand.
