A sickly orange sun glares over the horizon as the Moukopl ranks shuffle forward on the winding, dusty road. Each footstep raises a layer of earth into the already sweltering air. Battered war banners creak on their poles—a bleak chorus of fabric shredded by recent fighting. At the head of the column, Li Song sits straight-backed atop a weary horse. A row of cannons trundles alongside him, iron wheels grinding along the uneven trail. The metallic squeal and the rhythmic thud of hooves underscore the hush that has fallen over the entire procession.
They pass yet another ruined outpost, its gate smashed and the walls scorched by cannon fire. Starving villagers huddle nearby, watching warily from behind collapsed timbers. Their eyes, dull from sleepless nights, flick to Li Song and his men. They offer no cheers, nor curses—only silence that hums louder than any battlefield cry. A ragged child clings to a mother’s skirts, and the mother’s tight-lipped gaze follows Li Song as if expecting cruelty. Instead, Li Song nods slowly—an acknowledgment of suffering—but he does not dismount.
Jin Na rides up, dust clinging to the sweat on his brow. He waits until he is level with Li Song, clearing his throat to command attention. “General,” he says, voice low, “the fortress at Gamorin has fallen. I’ve left a small garrison to keep it secure.” He hesitates, glancing at Li Song, whose face remains a mask of calm. “They surrendered after a single volley, sir. Hardly any casualties on our side, but… the villagers there—some… difficulties.” He lets the unfinished sentence hang in the air.
Li Song’s gaze turns to the columns of refugees trailing their army: men with hollow cheeks, women bearing all they own in bundles, children stooped beneath the weight of fear. He exhales in a soft hiss. “I see,” he murmurs, and a faint cloud of dust from his horse’s breath swirls between them. “Ensure they are fed. Offer them what provisions we can spare.”
Jin Na’s lips part in surprise before he carefully schools his expression. He lowers his voice. “I will, General. Although… the men might question, in private, why we share rations. They want a swift victory, not—” He stops himself, aware he is treading close to insubordination.
Li Song’s eyes flick across the remnants of the outpost: charred beams, a toppled statue. The hush of the aftermath weighs on them both. “A fortress taken is no real victory if every soul within it perishes needlessly,” he says quietly. “Send the message: supply them. We’ll find ways to sustain ourselves.” His voice is firm, allowing no protest.
They press onward. At the next checkpoint, more exhausted Moukopl foot soldiers merge with the main column. Their armor, chipped and stained, echoes the look of men who’ve seen more than they should. Some lead battered horses dragging ramshackle carts laden with shot and powder. Others steer newly captured cannons with a sense of grim pride, as if forcing themselves to believe each piece of artillery brings them closer to ending the campaign.
That evening, they set up camp in the courtyard of what was once a small keep. Broken stone litters the ground where a tower collapsed under recent cannon fire. Jin Na reports another victory—another fortress surrendered. He tries to muster enthusiasm, but his words fall flat in the still air. Li Song does not celebrate. He stands by a fragment of wall and watches the sun slip below the western hills, his brow tight with unspoken thoughts.
Jin Na sets a lantern on a broken pillar, noticing the downward tilt of Li Song’s gaze. “This region will be under Moukopl control again, General. We’re almost done.” His tone is an attempt at encouragement, though it comes out uncertain.
“Almost,” Li Song agrees, voice barely above a whisper.
They fall silent. Crickets scrape at the darkness, and the scent of smoke lingers from the day’s battle. A steady wind picks up, flapping a torn Moukopl banner strung to a half-fallen post. It cracks in the breeze like a dying heartbeat. In the distance, villagers rummage through the remains of their homes under the watchful eyes of armed sentries. The sense of inevitability gnaws at the edges of every whispered conversation.
At last, Li Song turns, beckoning Jin Na to follow. “We move at dawn,” he says, his tone quietly resigned. “We’ll restore each fortress until An’alm is all that remains.” A pause, then something flickers in his eyes, a hint of conflict. “Pray that we find a better way to finish this.”
Jin Na swallows hard, his mouth dry. He lifts the lantern from the pillar, illuminating the deep lines of weariness etched into Li Song’s face. “Yes, General,” he answers, though something about Li Song’s words leaves an uneasy chill in the night air.
They walk away, leaving behind only a tattered fortress and a hundred silent refugees. The dust, the ruins, and the watchful hush of the conquered land seem to echo a single truth: no matter how swift the conquest, victory’s cost is paid in quiet devastation. And at each fallen fortress, Li Song’s troubled eyes carry the burden of a duty he can neither forsake nor wholeheartedly accept.
A damp chill hangs in the corridors of An’alm’s central keep, where flickering torches strain to cut through the gloom. The air is thick with murmured fears of Moukopl conquest, which has swept through the Bos region far more swiftly than anyone anticipated. In a small, candlelit war room, Ghuba stands rigid, arms folded across his broad chest. His once-proud posture is strained with worry.
Linh paces along one wall, his fiery hair catching sparks of light every time he passes a torch. Gankou sits at a wooden table littered with rough maps and half-finished notes. All three wear expressions of frayed nerves.
Ghuba’s voice, heavy with reproach, breaks the silence. “I warned you their advances would be rapid. You refused to believe the Moukopl could bring their cannons and discipline to bear so efficiently.”
Linh stops mid-stride. “I never doubted the Moukopl’s strength,” he snaps, “but I assumed our fortresses would slow them more than this. Don’t pin it all on me.”
A vein twitches in Ghuba’s temple. “Their fortresses, did you forget? They know how they work better than anyone. You think me a fool? Decades I served them, fought them, lost battles, won others. I told you we needed a united plan. Yet you insisted on splitting forces, scattering them across the border forts. Now fortress after fortress falls.”
“Enough!” Linh hisses. “I thought I had time to learn—time to gather more Siza warriors. If your old knowledge of Moukopl warfare was so vital, maybe you should have taken the lead from the start!”
A tense silence lingers, broken only by Gankou’s hesitant interjection. “We can’t tear each other apart. Father, Linh—this is exactly what the Moukopl want. If we fight among ourselves, how can we hold An’alm?”
Neither man meets his eyes. Ghuba’s stare remains fixed on Linh. “You speak of giving me command? Then remember, these walls might be all that stands between us and utter defeat.”
Linh steps closer, voice trembling with an anger he can’t fully contain. “Fine. Do as you please. I’m done second-guessing every step just to have my ideas bashed. Since you know everything, you lead. I’ll follow.” His tone drips with scorn, though beneath it lies uncertainty.
Gankou’s fists clench. “Please—this is the worst time to—”
“It’s settled,” Linh cuts him off, turning on his heel. “We’ll see how well it works, Commander Ghuba.”
As he strides out, torchlight casting his shadow long against the crumbling stone, Gankou looks helplessly between the two men. The hush that follows is thick with dread—An’alm’s defenders have never seemed more divided, even as the enemy armies tighten their grip outside the city walls.
…
A thin veil of moonlight filters through the cracked window of the modest chamber Linh’s sister calls her own. Here, away from the frenzied plans and sharp-edged words filling An’alm’s corridors, the air feels still—almost tranquil. A single lantern glows at the bedside, and its gentle flicker plays over Mihin’s face, highlighting the faint spots that mar her otherwise delicate features.
Linh stands just inside the doorway, his fiery red hair tousled, cheeks still flushed from the heated argument with Ghuba. He takes a slow breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders before stepping closer. Mihin, propped up against threadbare pillows, senses his presence—though her weary smile seems to waver under her own set of worries.
“Linh?” Her voice is soft, but a tremor edges into it. “You’re back late.”
He nods, crouching beside her bed until their faces are nearly level. The glow of the lantern reveals a fine sheen of sweat across her brow. “I—there was business,” he begins, but pauses, letting the unspoken battles and disagreements remain unvoiced. Instead, he sets a gentle hand over hers. “I wanted to see you before turning in.”
Mihin looks down at their intertwined fingers, lips curling into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ve been busy. I worry… the city grows restless.”
He glances at the window, where the distant murmurs of agitated voices drift through the night air. “Things are tense,” he admits softly. “But it’s only temporary.”
She shifts, as though trying to sit a bit straighter. “You always say that. How can we be sure?” There’s an unmistakable note of fear in her tone, and it tightens Linh’s chest like a vise.
In the flickering lamplight, he tries to muster a reassuring grin, brushing a strand of her red hair behind her ear. “Hey,” he murmurs, “you know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?”
Mihin’s eyes cloud with doubt, and she swallows. “They talk about the Moukopl armies in hushed voices. Rumors say they’re unstoppable, that they crush cities like children’s toys.”
A bolt of anguish passes across Linh’s face, but he forces composure, leaning in until Mihin can hear the steadiness of his breathing. “Listen to me,” he says, his tone firm. “Those people feeding you rumors haven’t seen what we can do. Ghuba and Gankou, even I… we’ve all fought—together and apart. We’re not rolling over; we’ll stand for this city.”
She squeezes his hand, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “I just… sometimes I feel like I’m fading. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” he states, voice low but intensely resolute. “You’re the reason I keep pushing forward. I need you to believe that, just as much as I need to believe it myself.”
For a moment, Mihin closes her eyes, inhaling his familiar scent—smoke, leather, and a hint of worry. “If there’s a battle, promise me you’ll come back. No matter what.”
Linh hesitates, the weight of that promise bearing down, but he gives a small nod. “Always.”
Outside, a sudden commotion flares—shouts echo in the corridor. Linh’s muscles tense, but he forces a tender smile for Mihin. “Rest,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “Trust me.”
She nods, letting her eyes drift shut. “I do,” she whispers, the tension in her features easing if only for a moment.
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Rising slowly, Linh steals one more glance at his sister—his anchor, his unspoken reason for every risk. Then he heads to the door. Beyond, the unrest in An’alm continues to swell, but inside that chamber, the soft glow lingers, and the promise Linh made hangs in the air—a fragile hope in a city on the brink of war.
Dark clouds roll across the evening sky as a ring of Moukopl campfires flickers to life around An’alm. Each flame casts dancing shadows on raw earthen ramparts that are still being raised—jagged mounds of dirt, piled high by exhausted laborers. Spaced along these makeshift walls, watchtowers jut upward in uneven clusters, their frames creaking as the wind grows colder. Despite the bustle of activity, a sense of stillness pervades the air, like the hush before an inevitable storm.
In the largest clearing, Jin Na strides along a line of archers. Their faces are etched with fatigue, shoulders sagging under the weight of quivers and sleepless nights. Each man stands at attention as he passes, though their eyes flick anxiously to the city beyond. The walls of An’alm loom in the twilight, silent and unyielding.
“Check your strings,” Jin Na instructs, voice tight with authority. He stops beside a wiry soldier whose fingers tremble against the bow. “We may not get another chance once this siege truly begins.”
The soldier nods and reflexively tests the bowstring, the twang lost amid distant hammering on the ramparts. Jin Na scans the ranks, his gaze lingering on the red-rimmed eyes of men running on borrowed courage. He exhales, counting their numbers under his breath.
A short distance away, Li Song stands apart from the bustling activity. His armor catches the glow from a nearby campfire, painting half his face in an orange flicker while the other half remains cloaked in shadow. He says little—simply watches the gates of An’alm, arms folded behind his back. The city itself remains eerily quiet, as though waiting for something unseen to unfold.
One of Jin Na’s lieutenants hurries over, saluting stiffly. “Sir, a messenger from the west flank.”
Jin Na nods, then steps closer. “Report.”
The lieutenant’s breath comes in quick bursts. “Another caravan left Lingzhou this morning with additional rice and powder. They were due by sundown.” He hesitates, shifting his weight. “They haven’t arrived.”
Before anyone can respond, a second voice shatters the hush: “Incoming!” A young scout bursts through the rows of tents, panting, uniform torn, eyes wide with alarm.
Jin Na hurries to meet him. “Speak!”
“Horsemen,” the scout gasps, hand pressed to a bleeding cut along his forehead. “They came out of nowhere—Yohazatz riders. The supply wagons never stood a chance.”
For a heartbeat, no one breathes. The crackle of the nearest fire seems thunderously loud in the silence.
Jin Na’s jaw clenches. “How many?”
“Dozens, maybe more,” the scout manages, voice trembling. “They hit the caravan like wolves. Took what they could, torched the rest. We tried to hold them off—lost at least ten men.” His voice cracks. “Sir, they ride as if the wind itself obeys them.”
Li Song finally turns his head, gaze steady. “Where?”
The scout swallows hard, forcing the words out. “They vanished north, toward the foothills.”
Before Jin Na can issue commands, a clamoring rings out at the western perimeter of the camp—shouts, metal scraping on metal, a series of panicked cries.
“Archers!” Jin Na bellows, sprinting toward the ramparts. Soldiers scatter around him, scrambling for their bows and spears. Li Song follows at a measured pace, cloak whispering across the dirt.
On the ramparts, torches flare, revealing a chaotic scene beyond: silhouettes of swift horsemen streak across the dusk, flanking a lone supply cart. Their mounts’ hooves thunder over the earth as arrows whistle past the rattled Moukopl guards.
One of the guards looses an arrow into the gloom. It strikes a mounted raider’s shoulder—he topples from the saddle with a ragged shout. But two more Yohazatz riders surge in, brandishing curved blades. Within moments, the cart’s oxen rear in terror, and the vehicle careens into a ditch. Flames catch on straw-packed barrels, throwing sparks high into the air like a twisted fireworks display.
“Hold your positions!” Jin Na roars, pushing archers back into alignment. “Steady your aim!”
A volley of arrows arcs out from the watchtowers. Some find their targets; riders cry out as they tumble. Others wheel their horses skillfully, evading the deadly hail. The flash of torches illuminates a Yohazatz chieftain brandishing a tall spear—he gallops unerringly along the rows of Moukopl shields, striking down two men who stray too far from the formation.
Li Song climbs onto the earthen ramp, surveying the chaos through narrowed eyes. With a curt gesture, he signals for a team of crossbowmen on his left. “Flank those riders,” he says, voice low and certain. “Cut off their escape.”
Obediently, the crossbowmen scramble toward a far parapet, reloading frantically as they aim at the swifter riders circling around the lost cart. The hum of bowstrings snapping in unison cuts through the din of battle. Several horses rear, screeching as bolts bite into their hides. A handful of riders, dismounted by force, attempt a desperate retreat. For a fleeting moment, it seems the Moukopl line might turn the ambush back.
But then new silhouettes emerge, galloping from the starlit gloom beyond the camp. More Yohazatz reinforcements, perhaps drawn by the glow of flames, close in from the north. Panic ripples through the Moukopl defenders; one of the archers lets out a ragged curse as the second wave slashes into the disorganized line.
Jin Na grits his teeth. “Where did they come from?” he hisses, drawing his sword. He turns, about to bellow new orders, when suddenly Li Song steps to the edge of the rampart.
The general raises a gauntleted hand, an unspoken command. The nearest Crouching Tiger crew, eyes gleaming with grim determination, hustle to reposition a small field piece. Its muzzle angles downward—trained on the swirling melee. The gunner bites down on the fuse, spitting it out in a shower of sparks. A heartbeat of tense silence… then the night explodes with a deafening roar as the cannon discharges.
The blast rips into the ground just behind the nearest cluster of raiders, plumes of dust and dirt erupting. Horses whinny in terror, and the Yohazatz fall back, seizing the precious moment to scatter before another shot can be fired.
“Regroup!” Jin Na yells. The archers, emboldened by the sudden shock of cannon fire, loose a unified volley. The onslaught of arrows forces the surviving riders to peel away from the camp’s perimeter. Soon, the thunder of hooves fades into the distance. Another moment, and the night air settles, broken only by pained moans and the crackle of flaming wreckage.
Slowly, guards rush to extinguish the fires engulfing the supply cart. Jin Na stands breathing hard, sweat and dust clinging to his face. He glances at Li Song, who remains poised, gaze fixed on the dark horizon where the raiders vanished.
“General,” Jin Na ventures, voice edged with frustration, “they’re hitting us at our weakest points.”
Li Song lowers his hand, his expression cast in flickering firelight. “So it begins,” he murmurs. “We can expect more of this. Stay vigilant.” The heaviness of his tone suggests a deeper worry—a conflict he neither names nor can fully deny.
Jin Na nods stiffly, determination burning in his eyes. He whips around, barking orders for increased patrols and sending scouts to track the horsemen. All the while, Li Song studies the distant city walls, half-lit by the reflected glow of the Moukopl campfires. The unmoving gates of An’alm stand like silent witnesses to the night’s violence. In the hush of the aftermath, the encircling fires seem to tighten, an omen of the long siege to come.
A raw chill settles over the camp as dusk descends. Lanterns bob along the ridges, marking the edges of Moukopl fortifications like fireflies in the gloom. Near one of the lookout posts, two sentries peer into the distance, their breath steaming in the cold air.
“See that?” one whispers, pointing. Far off, faint pinpricks of light blink and sway—torches moving swiftly, miles away.
His companion narrows his eyes. “Could be rebels.”
Neither says more, but the urgency in their voices pierces the stillness. They exchange uneasy glances before turning back to their watch, ears straining for any hint of distant hoofbeats or shouting.
Ghuba stands atop a gentle rise of earth, the wind stirring through his dark hair as he surveys the sprawling encampments and distant fortifications below. His fellow Yohazatz warriors cluster behind him in a loose semicircle, every bit as silent and watchful, their breaths pluming in the crisp air. Flickers of torchlight ripple across the valley, yet there’s no doubt in Ghuba’s eyes—an unwavering gleam that hints at victory.
A half-smile curves on his lips as he speaks, voice cutting through the hush. “This is the turning point,” he says, his tone touched with a fierce satisfaction. “Now that the lead falls into my hands, we’ll see our cause stand tall. Trust me—things will be fine.” His fellow warriors nod and grunt in agreement, bolstered by his conviction.
Morning brings a gray, biting wind that carries the acrid odor of smoke. A commotion spreads through the camp like wildfire. Soldiers gather around charred wooden frames—what was once a small supply convoy.
Jin Na arrives, cloak flapping at his heels. He stands before the ruin, fists clenched at his sides. Blackened barrels and scorched rice sacks litter the ground. The stench of burnt provisions clings to the air.
A shaken infantryman, still coughing from the acrid fumes, steps up. “Sir, we found them like this at dawn. No survivors… everything destroyed.”
Jin Na’s lips thin, his voice coming out harsher than intended. “Then where did the attack come from? How did no one see it?”
The soldier lowers his gaze. “We… we don’t know, sir. Some think they came from the north. Others say from the east. It happened so fast, no alarms raised.”
A ripple of nervous chatter spreads; the word “surrounded” floats from one mouth to another like a contagion. Jin Na spins on his heel, leveling a fierce glare at a knot of soldiers whispering conspiratorially.
“Back to your posts!” he barks, voice cracking like a whip. “Discipline… that’s how we end this rebellion, not through rumors!”
They disperse, muttering apologies. A hush falls, taut as a bowstring.
Li Song approaches from behind, his expression unreadable. The harsh lines of his armor frame a face that betrays neither shock nor anger—only a quiet, simmering concern.
Jin Na notices him, frustration still coursing through his veins. “General.” He forces the anger out of his tone. “It’s the third supply raid this week. They’re starving us out. If this continues—”
Li Song’s gaze slides across the wreckage, then out toward the distant hills. “It means the city’s defenders are desperate,” he says quietly, almost more to himself. “They aim to cut us off.”
Jin Na grits his teeth. “Sir, we can’t afford to lose another convoy. We’ll run low on powder, rations—everything. Morale’s already hanging by a thread.”
The faint flicker in Li Song’s eyes betrays a deep conflict. “Starving out An’alm…” he begins, voice heavy with resignation, “it invites cruelty on both sides. They suffer, we suffer. This war will devour us all if we let it.”
The wind shifts, scattering ashes from the ruined wagons. Jin Na looks around at the anxious faces of soldiers gathering at the scene. He knows the rumors swirling in the camp—fearful whispers that they’re being slowly choked of resources, that the city and its rebel allies are outmaneuvering them.
“You think there’s still another way?” Jin Na asks, tone edged with doubt.
Li Song doesn’t answer at first, eyes distant. Lanterns halo him in flickering gold as he strides to a makeshift platform of stacked crates. The faint clang of metal on metal fades, leaving only the crackle of torches and the distant moan of a bitter wind. All eyes turn to him, searching for guidance in the gloom.
He settles his gaze on the faces below—each etched by hardship, each shadowed by worry. For a moment, he simply breathes, letting the quiet deepen until it feels as though the entire army holds its breath along with him. Then, in a voice steady but resonant, he begins:
“I see it in your eyes—the anger, the fatigue, the hunger for relief. We’ve marched across scorched earth and broken stone, bearing burdens that grow heavier with each day. We’ve lost friends. We’ve stood before walls that refused to crumble and faced arrows that cut the night like falling stars. But hear me—despair is not our destiny.
“We are warriors, but we are also human. Our hearts must not harden to the suffering around us. When the White Mother looks upon us, do you think she sees Moukopl or Siza, rebel or loyalist? No. She sees men and women struggling in the same storm. We do not fight to be conquerors of ash—we fight so that hope might root itself in this desolate land. Let that remind us why we press on.
“Look upon your neighbor, see their exhaustion—know it mirrors your own. Let that common bond be our armor. The cruelty of war can twist us into monsters if we allow it. Yet, if we keep empathy burning in our chests, if we remember the families behind every blade, the children who watch from ruins, then we stay true to what is worth defending.
“Hold the line, not just with shield and spear, but with the belief that tomorrow can be different. When you falter, lift your gaze to the sky. Picture a day when this land breathes again—when fields grow green, and mothers don’t cower at the sound of marching feet. I ask you to endure. Not for glory, but for the faint possibility that kindness can guide our swords instead of hatred.
“Even now, the White Mother listens to our hearts. Join me in calling upon her—for wisdom greater than vengeance, for compassion stronger than fear.”
He lifts his hands, palms outward, as if cradling an unseen presence:
“Great White Mother, we stand in the shadow of destruction. Grant us the clarity to see more than blood and betrayal. Give us courage to spare those who surrender, to recognize the value in each life—enemy or ally. Shield our resolve from despair. Let your mercy guide us, even when our blades must be drawn. Let it be known that we do not revel in conquest, but seek an end to this darkness. May our actions pave a path to peace.”
The wind carries his final words through the ranks like a solemn benediction. Soldiers exchange glances, something kindling in their expressions—an ember of shared purpose, the faintest spark of renewed hope. Li Song lowers his hands, breathing slowly, feeling the weight of the silence that follows.
No cheer erupts, no triumphant roar. Instead, there’s a collective exhalation, as though an invisible burden lifts for just an instant. And in that moment, beneath the drifting torchlight, the army stands not simply as an instrument of war, but as souls clinging to a fragile belief: that compassion can still exist, even here, on the edge of devastation.