A few moments earlier, Aurora tapped the war chamber table.

  “Are you saying your power—the power of the goddess Ysalva—can protect Sunji?”

  “No,” Aurora said. “I’m saying I’ve been trained.” By someone, she thought. “To outmaneuver those stronger than me.”

  She remembered being a teen at the Blade Kingdom Academy. Back then, she had been forced to outsmart boys twice her size and with ten times her ability. But the real lessons were those impossible trials Milo threw her into against men who saw mercy as weakness.

  Her breathing quickened, memories clawing up from the dark, but she steadied. Her finger stopped tapping. She laughed slightly to herself as she realized it’s been a while since she had this feeling.

  Of being smaller than her opponent.

  Her smile faded.

  But things won’t end in tragedy.

  Not this time.

  Because now I have Amy. I finally have someone who won’t leave.

  Yes, she nodded. Her daughter would be the first to stay.

  Her breath steadied.

  Thanks to Milo’s “training” over a decade ago, the one where he dropped her in danger and abandoned her over and over again, she had already formulated a plan.

  She groaned inwardly, remembering the ironic pain of the past.

  ***

  The candles had burned low while maps lay across the table amongst Sunji’s generals and strategists.

  Aurora stood behind her chair, the light casting shadows on her face.

  “The truth,” she said, sighing “is that Sunji cannot win an open-field war.”

  “What?!” Some men slammed the table. The Empress’s brow furrowed. There was fury.

  Aurora raised a hand patiently. “So we won’t fight one,” she continued, smirking slightly. “A fortress doesn’t need high walls. It needs more walls than the enemy can find.”

  “Go on,” Mel leaned forward.

  Aurora nodded politely as she gestured toward the map, which had three faint circles drawn in ink.

  “The outer belt made up of farmland and villages will be our first defense. We’ll evacuate them, but not completely. We leave rice jars, dummies, and signal fires. Samantha’s army will rush toward what looks weakest, because they were trained by me. And when they do, they’ll find mud and traps. It’s simple.” She shrugged. “They’ll scream, they’ll sink.”

  Mel’s eyes narrowed. “Then?”

  Aurora’s hand moved inward.

  “Then we move into the middle belt. Into the hills and valleys. Where we place your archers and light cavalry. Again, the plan here is simple. Strike, retreat, redirect. Make them chase ghosts. And all the while, every step forward costs them time, food, and trust.”

  Her finger stopped at the innermost circle.

  “My plan has a third step. The capital and its mountain citadels are at the heart of it. We prepare for siege and build tunnels, aqueducts, and sealed stores. We yield ground deliberately until the enemy exhausts itself. By the time they reach the gates, their strength will be memory.”

  The general frowned. “You mean to burn the countryside?”

  Aurora shook her head. “No. To disappear it.” She cleared her throat. “Like I said, this continent — Sunji — is weaker than the continent next door. You need to accept it.”

  She didn’t flinch at the rage of the men, firmly putting her hand up. “The land itself will fight for us. We need to build hidden sluice gates upstream. When they march, we open them. Floods drown supply lines and the mud will kill fire before it can spread. Even her wielders can’t burn through wet earth.”

  The men were still raging, but they silenced the moment they realized Mel had not spoken.

  The empress looked at the map carefully, voice frightfully quiet. “That’s…clever.”

  One general with heavy scars leaned forward, eyes narrowed. He looked at Aurora as if she was a threat. “And morale?” He challenged. “How do we hold faith when people see us retreat?”

  Aurora looked up, eyes calm. She had grown much from her decade and a half as empress. “By giving them a story worth believing. Your holy men will ring bells before each attack. To the enemy, it will look like prophecy.”

  There was muttering.

  Aurora simply inclined her head. “And let them believe it. Let them think mercy guides us. When we release prisoners, they’ll go home blindfolded and alive, whispering that the Goddess of Mercy spared them. We’ll win hearts through fear of kindness.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Mel exhaled. “You’re turning faith into a weapon.”

  Mel’s gaze narrowed, but Aurora saw it, the flicker beneath calculation.

  She’s not used to meeting anyone equal to her.

  Aurora bowed.

  After the war, I’m a threat. But I’m not even worried.

  Her eyebrow raised as a thought slapped her. Fuck Milo, but damn he was right. I did learn this game quickly.

  —-

  Now, in the dark room, Aurora threw her arms around Amy.

  “Shh,” she begged. “Yes, yes. I support you completely.”

  “Mom?” Amy’s eyes were wide, disbelief still raw in her voice.

  She can’t believe this sudden change in me.

  What she doesn’t know is…I’ve loved her from the beginning. And I’m terrified to lose her. now that I let her back in.

  That was the very thing I was dreading.

  For the first time in years, the strategic empress felt nervous—embarrassed, even. Her armor had cracked the moment Amy had collapsed into dreams. The moment she had vowed loyalty to Amy. In a way, she felt newborn.

  Then, Amy stood.

  “Mom,” she said quietly. “I want to visit my old hometown. I want to see Kristo’s grave.

  Aurora’s fingers still.

  Amy looked her straight in the eye. “I want to make sure he’s…really dead.”

  Aurora closed her mouth and simply nodded.

  And, from there, it didn’t take long for them to reach the coast.

  Amy met the villagers first, though most shrank from her after the magic they had seen. It didn’t help that Amy looked just like the invaders who had thrown magic.

  Then a middle aged baker pushed through the crowd, stepped forward, and pulled her into a trembling embrace.

  “Ben!” Amy gasped. She returned the hug. Her voice cracked as she fought back tears.

  “Why are you here, Amy?”

  “I…I want to see my dad’s grave.”

  With tears in his eyes, the baker nodded.

  Aurora turned as two children stumbled from the doorway.

  And Amy froze.

  “Amy!”

  Amy’s breath caught. It couldn’t be.

  “I thought you…” She couldn’t finish.

  Her seven-year-old brother Ren threw herself into Amy’s arms. He felt…so small. Yet strong. Then they both sobbed.

  When Amy looked up, her other brother had his arms crossed, eyes wide and defiant. He was 10, and hostile, for his age.

  A spitting image of his mother. The younger one tugged her arm, prompting her to look down.

  “I got burned a little bit,” Ren said, showing his shoulder. “Look.”

  “Ren…”

  “But then Dad saved me! But mom… Mom…”

  “Shh.” Amy drew him close again as he sobbed harder.

  “And Kristo?” she asked quietly.

  Ren only cried harder. It was answer enough. Both parents were dead.

  Amy felt numb. She was the oldest one here now, which meant no more tears. She had to be the strongest.

  When he quieted, she grabbed his shoulders. “Ren,” she said softly. “I’m so happy to see you.” But her voice cracked at the end.

  Ben, the baker, cleared his throat. “Still want to see his grave?” he asked gently.

  He escorted them to Kristo’s grave.

  When they got there, the marker was plain, and the wind blew.

  Amy knelt first. Aurora stayed cautiously behind her, the air shifting faintly as she extended her earth-sense through the soil.

  She knew what Amy would ask next.

  Was he really dead?

  So Aurora closed her eyes to focus and scanned.

  Yes, Kristo’s body was beneath them.

  Aurora exhaled slowly, the sound escaping like surrender.

  Aurora brushed the dirt from Kristo’s name, as the wind moaned and sighed around them. “He never asked the world to love him,” she said. “He just kept trying to make it kinder.”

  Amy’s voice broke, then steeled. “And look what it did to him.”

  Aurora looked back, surprised by the hostility in her voice.

  It almost reminded her of… Milo.

  “Yes,” Aurora said, carefully. “But look what he left behind.” She looked at her daughter. “You.”

  Amy blinked through tears, as if seeing her mom for the first time.

  Aurora took a slow, long breath in as the wind picked up, curling through the grass like another sigh. Amy stayed kneeling, tracing the grooves in the half-carved letters.

  “He believed people could still be good,” she said softly. “Even after everything.” She looked at her mother desperately as if to say is that true?

  Aurora’s jaw tightened. “It’s not just that he had that luxury. He saw the ugliness in humans, but believed to see the good in people and continued to help. I saw the same thing and decided they weren’t worth saving.”

  Amy looked up at her. “Do you still believe that?”

  Aurora hesitated. “I used to.” She looked out toward the ocean, its horizon swallowed in gray. “But I’m learning it doesn’t matter what I believe. You do. Maybe that’s what he meant to leave me with.”

  They stood together in the hush that follows grief, the part where the world waits to see what comes next. A gull cried somewhere far off. The sea smelled of salt and memory.

  Aurora touched the grave one last time. She knew this was a pivotal time for Amy, and she didn’t want her goodness to end.

  “We’ll do the right thing.” She stood up, letting the wind kiss her coat. “For him,” she said. “And for whoever we are when all of this ends.”

  The tide rolled in again, erasing their footprints as they walked away from the grave. The sun was setting behind the hills, the light bleeding gold across the water.

  Neither spoke, but for the first time in years, their silence wasn’t made of walls. It was made of promise.

  Aurora didn’t answer right away. The sea hissed beyond the cliffs, the tide crawling up and retreating again like it couldn’t decide whether to stay.

  Amy was eerily silent. Aurora racked her brain for what to say.

  Finally, Aurora opened her mouth. “Amy,” she said. “Even if the world doesn’t change, you do. Every act of mercy leaves a scar in the right direction.”

  Amy frowned. “You make it sound like a wound.”

  “It is,” Aurora said. “I won’t lie to you. Mercy always is. But if it doesn’t cost something real, it isn’t worth anything.”

  Amy turned to her, searching her face. “Is that what happened to you? You gave too much?”

  Aurora almost laughed, too brittle for humor. She looked back toward Kristo’s grave again. “I gave the world everything I had when it was too late. When it was my fault everything was broken.” She looked toward the ocean. “Your father,” Aurora murmured, “didn’t save the world. He just refused to let it make him cruel.”

  Amy’s breath hitched. “Even when it broke him?”

  Aurora nodded. “Once he told me that choosing mercy matters, even when it doesn’t change anything. I didn’t understand it back then. I used him, even…called him stupid. I thought winning was what mattered.”

  The wind moved through the grass, gentle and endless.

  “And now?” Amy asked.

  Aurora smiled faintly. “Now I think he was the only one of us who ever truly won.”

  “What…what do you mean?”

  For a moment, the air between them was just breathing and wind.

  Aurora rested her hand on Amy’s hair. “Because he didn’t let the world decide who he was. Power, revenge, control... all of it ends the same way. But kindness, even when it costs you everything—” she exhaled, eyes softening— “is the only thing that outlasts the ruin.”

  She held her daughter’s hand.

  “Come on,” she whispered softly, as they made their way back to the palace.