CHAPTER 339: THE ENEMY’S EMBRACE

The Enemy’s Embrace

Then—footsteps.

Not hasty, but weighty. Deliberate. Each one landed with the soft finality of a hammer against an anvil, the sound ringing through the dim, scented air. They came closer, slow enough to be deliberate, unavoidable.

Heads turned, one after another, as if some unseen hand was stripping away the moment. The music’s spell shattered—notes suspending unfinished, movements freezing mid-course.

Out of the shadows at the door of the tent, a figure emerged. Towering. Clad in a cloak of seamless black. The creases of the garment absorbed all threads of light, and his form was only silhouetted by the faintest ember. Even the fire’s light, constant and covetous, hesitated before him, as if cautioned back.

The melody of the lute died away into silence.

The dancers’ hips froze, the soft jingle of anklets dying on the air.

He entered, boots sinking into the piled-up carpets with every step. His eyes swept the tent lazily—tranquil, icy, and unflinching—drinking in the reclining soldiers with their unfinished cups, the performers petrified mid-gesture, the women standing off to the side with their bare feet scraping together, their eyes sharp with cautious interest.

From the depths of the nest of pillows at the center of the tent, a voice at last shattered the stillness.

"Hah... you finally arrived, my friend."

The speaker, a tall thin man rising from his nest of embroidered pillows with the slow deliberate movements of one used to being obeyed, had a fall of long green hair that cascaded down his shoulders to mingle in curves of deep jade with the lanternlight. Black eyes—untroubled, inscrutable, but heavy with presence—greeted the intruder’s with no hesitation. The sharp cut of his cheekbones had a silent dignity, his features evenly spaced in a balance that teetered on the brink of masculine strength and an almost fragile beauty. Smooth skin and curving brows could have tempered him, but the resolute jaw and subtle assurance of his smile left his maleness unchallenged.

He advanced at a calculated gait, every step a balance of refinement and restraint. The green silk top flowed over his wiry physique softly, its gold-filigrane lining glinting in the light. The material rippled with every movement, sweeping against white pants so immaculate that they appeared to be untouched by dust or perspiration. He strode as a man greeting an acquaintance at a small social event and not a stranger shrouded in darkness.

My friend," he said, his voice warm but touched with a hint of tease, "will you keep your face covered all evening? Or will you bestow the truth under the hood?

All eyes in the tent were fixed on the transaction—soldiers lounging on cushions, servants caught mid-task, dancers suspended mid-step. Their commander spoke to the hooded stranger not with wariness, but with the naturalness of one greeting a familiar friend. Men moved uneasily around them—some furrowing their brows with silent distrust, others observing with the impassiveness of those who refuse to share their thoughts.

The cloaked man made no answer. His gloved hand came up instead—slow, deliberate—his fingers reaching to the edge of his hood. The atmosphere within the tent grew thick, anticipation-filled. Lantern light flickered, then froze, as if the very flame hesitated to intrude. The hood crept back, fabric separating with a low hiss, its inching progress revealing more of the man beneath and building tension for the moment.

Then appeared the hair—jet black, reflecting the light of lanterns like burnished silk. His face appeared afterwards, hewn from proud lines, handsome with a beauty that had risk along its edges. Obsidian-black eyes, icy and firm, shone under quick brows. His pose was a thing carved—power chiseled into every plane—yet relaxed now by the soft curve of a wise smile.

Recognition ran through the tent in whispers, a quiet drumbeat pounding on every mind that was familiar with the East. To anyone from the Moonstone Kingdom, that countenance was without question. If Leon, or any of Moonstone’s faithful lords, had been there, the astonishment of seeing him here, in the heart of the enemy, would have frozen their breath.

Edric Starlight. The Duke of the Starlight Duchy. The Eastern Shield of Moonstone. Commander of the frontier that held Vellore’s ambitions at bay.

Edric’s lips curved just slightly as his voice sliced through the silence.

"There now, my friend. Now you see me clearly... King Garry."

The name pierced deeper than the salutation. Whispers on tongues died. The green-haired one standing before him was no general—this was the king of Vellore itself, the kingdom whose armies drained Moonstone’s borders dry. His identity was known to none even among his own lines, hidden so well that not even the king of Moonstone doesn’t know also he patrolled the borderlands himself. And yet here he stood, with a smile.

That smile broadened, his arms opening in welcome.

"Ah... would-be king of Moonstone," said Garry, his voice raised to carry, "come, and welcome your friend."

The two men moved forward, bridging the gap between black mantle and green brocade. They hugged and gripped arms as though years of friendship held them—long enough, yet with enough restraint that the embrace hurtened in the eyes of their observers. To those whose perceptions were correctly informed, it was the embrace of two men whose armies rent each other’s throats.

The tent was holding its breath. Not a whisper, not a plucked lute string dared to disrupt the peculiar hush that had fallen over the assembly. For the women and men within, the moment was nearly dizzying—Duke of Moonstone and King of Vellore both smiling, as if the world beyond their door wasn’t on the precipice of war. The sheer contradiction was enough to make even the bravest of them nervous.

Murmurs arose in the back ranks, the sort created by confusion and fear. Soldiers swapped fast, questioning glances. The dancers restlessly shifted where they stood, torn between duty and reflex. Even the old officers—seasoned veterans who had fought without flinching—held silent tongues, eyes darting from one ruler to the other as if waiting for the strain to break at any moment.

Closer to the back, one of Garry’s officers bent towards him, voice low and uncertain. "Your Majesty... why is the enemy here?"

Garry turned with studied calm, his smile fixed as if it had been chiselled there. "This man is no foe of ours," he stated firmly, the inflexion in his voice brooking no uncertainty. "This is Edric—our valued ally, and, soon, the rightful future monarch of Moonstone. Treat him with the respect due to him."

The words dropped over the assemblage like a stone into quiescent water, creating waves of reaction in the tent. Some of the soldiers stiffened, chins coming up in grudging recognition. Others dropped their heads, though the movement had the feel of quiet rebellion.

Edric, on his own part, appeared to be more amused than affected. His eyes sparkled with an inner amusement, the kind that spoke of a delight in watching others struggle to shift their allegiances.

Without pausing stride, Garry glanced in the direction of the three dancers who had stood frozen outside near the entrance since Edric’s arrival. He raised a hand and pointed indolently, the movement relaxed but full of authority.

"You three," he declared, voice smooth, nearly indulgent, "go and prepare. Tonight, you will attend to my friend’s every whim. to the fullest. Wait for him in his tent."

The dancers bowed together, their silken voices tainted with submissiveness. "As you desire, Your Majesty." But beneath the polysyllabic words was something more—eyes that glided toward Edric with slow, calculating interest, the mere twitch of a smile playing at their painted lips.

Edric watched them go without embarrassment, following the swing of hips and the line of bare shoulders with his eyes as they turned to depart. The women, aware of his regard, tarrying in their curtsy one beat longer than necessary, shot him flirtatious smiles beneath lowered lashes before moving out into the darkness.

Garry grunted with a husky chuckle, the sound almost drowned out by the hum of the tent. "My friend, do not let the swing of their hips distract you. They are yours for the evening—no need to fret, no need to hurry."

"Then I thank you for the present," Edric said suavely, his voice warm with humor. He sighed a gentle laugh. "You are kind, Garry. Very kind."

You’ve been kind to me," Garry replied, his grin spreading further. "Murdering our ancient foes... assisting us where others were afraid to. It’s only right I repay you." With a careless wave of his wrist, he motioned toward the pile of embroidered pillows beside him. "Sit, come. Wine awaits.

But Edric did not move toward the seat. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying Garry with a faint, knowing smile that hinted at something more. "And I’ve brought something more for you," he said. "New people—ones who wish to serve under you."

That caught Garry’s interest. His brows lifted in a slow, deliberate arch. "Of course. Call them in."

Edric moved to the entrance of the tent, his dark cloak ruffling with the movement. He extended a hand, fingers snapping once in the air.

The heavy flap opened. Ten figures entered, each of them swathed in dark cloaks that swept the floor. They advanced in unison silence, their boots crushing the thick carpet with deliberate weight. Even if they didn’t speak, the tension in their postures was betraying a silent discomfort. They halted in a row in front of the two men, the air between them straining, as if pulled to the breaking point.

Show your faces," Edric demanded, his voice cutting crisply through the heavy silence.