The Heirloom Bed Pavilion—a velvet-swathed chamber reserved for clandestine meetings between Nobles and Emissaries—was drenched that night in the scent of sandalwood incense, honeyed wine, and a tension as carefully embroidered as their diplomatic smiles.
Sri sat upright on the western side of the room, clad in dark navy war regalia laced with gold. Across from her, on the eastern end, sat Chen Lu Han—looking as if not even a typhoon could muss a single strand of his well-arranged hair. His smile was thin, polite... almost holy. And yet, nothing is more suspicious than a deceitful face dressed in virtue.
"Do you speak my language?" Sri finally spoke, her eyes narrowing like drawn blades.
Chen grinned. "I speak many tongues, Senapati. But my favorite is... the language of an angry woman. Very expressive."
From the shadows behind her, Raka exhaled inwardly. "You'll be fluent by sunrise, I suppose."
When it comes to matters as grand as diplomacy between Nations, language is never truly a barrier. The Kingdom of Medang had long trained its war leaders in Old Han—the formal tongue of the Yi Dynasty. And the Yi? They made sure their emissaries were well-versed in the dialects and etiquette of The Southern realms. Formal interpreters still attended, of course, but tonight, they were little more than decoration.
The early negotiations flowed smoothly—too smoothly, in fact. Sri felt like she was parleying with a baby-faced serpent. He read her too well, steered the conversation too quickly, and had an annoying fondness for weaving in compliments so sly they almost felt sweet.
"I heard Medang has the finest cavalry in the lands," he said, sipping his wine with reverence. "Must be because its commander is as relentless as her warhorse."
"Senapati," she corrected, chilled and sharp. "I'm no General. I'm the Anom."
Chen bowed his head in mock deference, though mischief still shimmered in his gaze. "Ah yes. Younger. More dangerous."
Meanwhile, somewhere deeper in the palace, shadows whispered treason.
Several high-ranking officials—those aging and overlooked by the crown—watched the diplomatic dance from afar with narrowed eyes and simmering ambition.
"They're too comfortable," muttered one of the elder advisors.
"There's an opening here. If we can stir distrust... fracture the alliance just enough..."
"The people will begin to doubt the King's strength. And then... our time comes."
The evening pressed on, soaked in wine, polite laughter, and daggered glances dressed as courtesy. But beneath the gilded jokes, Sri could feel it : something was off.
And Chen Lu Han—the youthful envoy from the north—seemed to know more than he let on.
And perhaps... he too was waiting.
Waiting for the perfect moment to play his hand.