Light and sandalwood clung to the air like perfume at a funeral, saturating his senses with unwanted sensations.

  Alric stood outside the tent’s entrance, letting the rot set in, the pig-breath licking his neck slowly, sloppily.

  The clink of goblets and the hush of careful voices spiced the backdrop to this unwilling march.

  Looking to his sides, he saw the guards staring ahead, unmoving. Neither of them dared meet his gaze.

  The tent rose high and imperial, backed by a crimson pavilion etched in silver finery.

  Its walls, gleaming with ceremonial grandeur, bore the golden seal of the empire, bold and immaculate.

  Beneath his boots, the gound was clothed in palatial tarps.

  A little empire, for little men.

  He stifled the thought immediately, lest it persuade him to ridicule them aloud.

  The incessant rain had gone, replaced now by a drizzle that came and went as it pleased.

  Steeling himself for what was about to unfold, he stepped in.

  All movement stopped.

  Murmurings ceased.

  Every sound withdrew.

  The room became an ossuary of silence, where six eyes turned to him in perfect unison.

  By habit he scanned the room for threats.

  What he found amounted to three courtiers behind a lacquered table, and a plain, armless chair placed before it.

  Each man sat on what seemed more throne than seat, raising them inches too many from the ground.

  Soft cushions dotted the chamber. Embroidered linen walls bore no trace of soot.

  The crimson silken ground was somehow untouched by dirt, as though the burning had no intention of speaking its consequences here.

  And the three battlefield banners, stitched in gold and silver with the imperial signet, stood still, like never-worn execution hoods adorned by inexperienced headsmen.

  The space felt foreign in its ordered clutter.

  Everything felt alien, fake, and theatre. Nothing spoke of true loyalty, but one made of words and performance.

  Even the warmth wasn’t natural. Not born of flame, but breath and exhaled wine. It demanded compliance, nothing else.

  He didn’t speak.

  Neither did they.

  Only the whispering of shifting cloth on skin betrayed any movement.

  Vaudrel was the eldest.

  Seated at the centre, he raised a goblet of wine to his mouth with the practiced ease of somebody long-acquainted with spoken authority.

  To his right sat Caellis, younger by two decades at least, seemed made of bone and salt.

  Narrow frame, pinched features, and fingers tapping a quiet, compulsive rhythm on the table’s edge. Measured. Metronomic. Disdainful.

  And lastly, Durell, the piglet who came to fetch him. A faint smirk playing on his lips. His gaze never left Alric’s, not even for a second.

  There was no warmth in it.

  Just the calculation of a man wondering how far a dog might run before being shot.

  “Please, Vaelgard,” Vaudrel began, his voice slick with disinterest.

  “Take a seat.”

  The chair stood alone and unadorned, deliberately off-centre.

  Less a courtesy, more a dais of judgement.

  His let his gaze rest on the banners one last time before stepping forward.

  He paused beside the seat and remained still, meeting each of their eyes in turn.

  “I thank you, Seneschals, for this courtesy,” he said, voice level.

  “But as a Lord of War, I must remain vigilant at all times, should danger stir nearby.”

  A pause.

  Then more flatly.

  “Naturally… for your safety.”

  Heavy silence followed.

  The seneschals exchanged glances.

  Vaudrel was first to speak, lifting his goblet again with slow, rehearsed grace.

  “Thank you, Lord Commander,” he said, the smile on his face never reaching his eyes. “But we must insist. Be at ease. The camp is secure. And its heart,” he took a sip of the wine in his hand, “is occupied by loyal men, and loyal words.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Your soldiers have watched over us well since the siege began. We trust they’ll continue to do so until this meeting ends. And beyond.”

  Alric didn’t answer.

  The braziers glow caught the edge of his gaze, throwing molten silver into its mold.

  He looked to the chair. Measured it.

  Then, slowly, with the composure of a man choosing to oblige on his own terms, took it in hand and pulled it a half-step behind him, away from its original position.

  Just enough to signal he would sit, but not where they had commanded.

  He lowered himself onto it, calculating every move of his body.

  Back straight.

  Hands firm against his thighs.

  The posture of a seasoned soldier.

  “Then let us speak.” He said, calm as iron.

  “I’ve made time for you.”

  Caellis’ fingers draped across the table as interlocking spider legs.

  “Let us begin with the matter of timing, Commander.”

  “There was, as you know, a tacit understanding that the siege would commence only upon approval from the War Council’s envoys.”

  A lean forward. Subtle, calculated.

  “That is to say… ourselves.”

  He reclined again, voice oiled with practiced civility.

  “I would never presume to know why you chose to initiate the assault in lieu of our abscent judgement,”

  a gracious wave, gesturing loosely to Alric.

  “But we would like it stated. For the record, of course.”

  Alric looked at them for a moment before answering.

  “Esteemed administrators of War,” Alric began, his voice even.

  “Surely you need no reminder of what my station allows, but for the sake of clarity, let us record it plainly.”

  Alric held their gaze unflinchingly.

  “As a Lord of War, I am permitted full discretion over logistics, timing, and field execution in matters of engagement. The council’s role, as you well know, is to review these decisions, not pre-empt them.”

  A pause.

  “While there was an understanding between us, I deemed the situation too volatile to delay. The enemy was poised. The gates were weakening, and momentum was ours.”

  “If this has inconvenienced you, I regret it. But the crown has never waited for ink to dry before crushing its enemies. I, as its loyal instrument, saw to it that its will was made manifest.”

  Vaudrel chuckled softly. A dry sound, hollow of any humour.

  “Ah… spoken like a true Lord of War. How fortunate for us, then, that the Empire’s will should find such a zealous blade in you, Commander.”

  He swirled the wine in his goblet.

  “But zeal, however commendable, can take the shape of overreach if left unchecked.”

  He took a measured sip.

  “And so, we come to your descent into the city.”

  A pause. The wine glass lowered to the table.

  “You gave us your word. That you would try to remain at the ridge. A soldier’s courtesy, we took it for. But not a soldier’s bond apparently.”

  His voice hardened, just slightly.

  “You acted against the council’s advisement and rode into Khal-Drathir like a common sellsword.”

  His eyes flicked to the remnants of ash dirtying Alric’s cheeks.

  “You command both the Sixth and Third—men who look at your every move. What message would it send when such an important military figure disregards the very body appointed to advise him?”

  He leaned back.

  “Some might begin to wonder, Commander, whether the War Council’s voice carries any weight in your ears.”

  Alric’s voice took on certainty as shield.

  “A commander’s presence is not spectacle, but oath.”

  He leaned slightly forward, hands resting on his thighs.

  “One sworn in honour, blood and sweat.”

  “My men saw no defiance in it, no vanity. Only death being disarmed of its fangs. With me in the breach, they believed victory would hold, that they would see their families again. I am to them what the Empire claims to be: unchallenged, undying, unflinching, undisputed.”

  His eyes held theirs, calm and clear.

  “If that unsettles the council, then it is merely a difference of vantage, nothing more. Mine was from the breach. Yours… was not.”

  “A stirring defence, Vaelgard.”

  Caellis interjected, his fingers drumming again, this time faster.

  “But one can’t help but notice how these justifications always seem to find their tongue after the fact.”

  His tone remained even, but his eyes narrowed sharply.

  “Moreover, you speak of honour, morale, presence, symbols even. But others might see nothing more than another general polishing his image in the blood of his enemies.”

  His fingers stilled, and his voice lowered.

  “Especially if some circumstances are met…”

  A silence followed. One like a snake uncoiling its vices before striking.

  “As might be the case this time.”

  Durell’s voice cut through, slick with performative modesty.

  “This is just conjecture,” he added, fingers lacing before his mouth.

  “But were a commander to bring war spoils to his tent against the standing decree, no less. How might that reflect upon the Crown or its subjects?”

  A smile slithered behind his hands.

  “Some might call it indulgence. Others, compassion. Others still… something else entirely.”

  Durell let the insinuation linger in the room.

  Then, leaning back, he continued with mock deliberation.

  “Of course we wouldn’t presume to judge motive,” he said mildly.

  “But a man coming back from the breach, bloodied and broken… well, he might not think clearly in the moment. Grief, perhaps. Mercy, a possibility. Or maybe yet…”

  His eyes flicked to Alric’s chest, then back up.

  “A private appetite.”

  He faintly gestured with one hand, as if banishing the thought.

  “We shan’t assume. And the court, in its wisdom, will decide how to name what is and what is not.”

  Alric gaze did not leave Durell’s.

  The brazier behind him crackled, casting long shadows across the canvas walls.

  Gold and silver mixed in his eyes.

  “Honorable Seneschals,” he began, voice like hammered bronze, “if we are to redefine our roles by questioning my field decisions in hindsight, let us do so.”

  His tone held no anger, but precision.

  “I was entrusted with the prosecution of this campaign. Full command was given me by the emperor by parchment and seal. Complete discretion over all decisions pertaining this march.”

  He paused.

  “The moment my judgement is put to tribunal by those who did not bleed for this conquest, the office of Lord of War ceases to exist.

  “And worse, the council ceases to be its custodian. Rather, its saboteur by proxy of insinuation, and theatre of intimidation.”

  A breath.

  “If the council wishes to assume command retroactively, let it be said so plainly. I will personally deliver the seal and parchment, and you may explain to the legions why they are now led by perfume and crimson brocade.”

  After a silence that lasted a moment too long to be comfortable, Vaudrel was first to answer.

  “As ever, Lord Commander, you remind us of the difference between parchment and steel.”

  He exhaled softly. A thin smile, all teeth.

  “But please, let it not be said that the War Council’s envoys failed in their duty to listen and observe.”

  Caellis followed suit, his tone colder than stone.

  “Indeed. Our duty is clear, and we shall fulfil it in full diligently.”

  He did not blink.

  “We look forward to the review of this march. After all names are buried, and all banners lowered.”

  Durell spoke last.

  “Steel has spoken, yes. But ink… records, Commander.”

  He leaned forward just a touch, the smirk never leaving his lips.

  “And when it dries, who will be remembered, I wonder.”

  Alric held their gaze a moment longer, then rose.

  “Then we are finished.” He said, voice cut from ice.

  “That we are, Commander. Farewell.” Vaudrel replied.

  He turned and stepped outside.

  The full moon greeted him in silence. The cold air kissed his cheeks.

  Behind him, the firelit tent faded, dimming with every step.

  Ahead, his own loomed ever closer, where Vargo watched, and the girl waited.