CHAPTER 338: UNDER THE TWIN MOONS [PART-2]

Under the Twin Moons [Part-2]

The room seemed to incline towards the throne, as though the walls themselves were paying attention.

"In the east," he started, his voice controlled but with it ringing out across the hall, "is the Danger and wild Forest—a foul, rotting heart of nature over which no man, no host, exercises control. There rule beasts. Stir them. Anger them. Send them against the Vellore line. Then, when the turn comes, withdraw our troops. Let their wrath dash on our foes."

A gentle hum rustled through the court—half curiosity, half fear, robes rustling and the soft scuff of leather on stone.

"In the west, we possess the Sky River," he continued. "Its arteries flow from the eastern mountains far into our territory. We dammed it decades ago. Break the dam. Release the waters to thunder free. Drown their advance before their boots soil our ground."

The words fell with the impact of stones cast into a calm pond—waves of silence radiating.

From the group of generals, one in black armor emerged. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence was like a war-wall. A scar ran down from brow to cheek, not as imperfection, but as threat. His deep, even voice, the sort that made lesser men hesitate.

"My lord. if we do this, our own folk will suffer. Towns will be destroyed beneath the flood and beneath the fury of beast."

The king’s eyes fastened on him, tight and unforgiving.

This is war, General," he stated, his voice growing cold enough to cut. "Does the powerless think they are spared?" His eyes became sharpened as a blade. "Spare me the sentiment. The powerless die first in war—such is the way of things. Better that they die serving the kingdom than under a foreign blade.

The general’s jaw clenched. Words were on the verge of escaping, but the force of that look squashed them. He bowed instead.

"Now," Aurelian announced, stepping down from the throne, the rustle of his black cloak whispering against the marble, "that is my command. Prepare everything. We implement all of these schemes simultaneously."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the court replied in single, clipped voice, though uncertainty hung in the air.

Aurelian came down from the dais slowly, every step a calculated blow. Ministers and generals moved aside, their unspoken thoughts weighing heavy in the air.

Behind the great doors, he entered the torchlit passageway. The great panels slammed shut behind him, locking the hall with a profound, resonating thud.

Only then did the court catch its breath. Glimpses flicked between ministers, but no speech came after. They left one by one, until the chamber was empty—its quiet weighing like a last judgment.

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Eastern Border — Same Night

The battlefield lay still, its tumult devoured by night. Hours before, steel had collided and men had shrieked; now, only the dead lingered to testify. Blood covered the ground in irregular puddles, making the earth a dark, sticky bog. The air was thick with the smell of iron and the acrid, bitter wisps of burned oil. Each body twisted in the ground appeared to pull the night down with it, and the quiet that followed was nearly callous—noise in its quietness.

Five kilometers away, the gloom dissolved. A bitter, otherworldly light seeped across the steppes where the Vellore war camp sprawled like a living organism. At a distance, it might have passed for a miniature city—row on row of spotlessly kept tents, each one embossed with the snarling lion crest, its fangs bared in perpetual scorn. Torches flared in evenly spaced intervals, casting long shadows over the flattened grass.

Guards here were a precision on the move—each step calculated, each look alert. Their armor shone under the light of torches, steel plates burnished to a mirror’s finish. The roaring lion was emblazoned across every breastplate, a sign of the kingdom they protected. Eyes swept the darkness beyond the camp’s edge, never pausing, never relaxing. No one went unnoticed here.

And yet...

At the center of the camp stood a single tent, greater than the others but lacking ostentation. Its white fabric was immaculately clean and secured with delicate, nearly regal seams. The poles bore etched curling patterns, shining softly in subdued detail. Outside, it appeared serene—unassuming. But as one crossed its threshold, the universe shifted.

Heat from the tent struck first, heavy with the aroma of spiced wine and cooking meat. Dozens of men reclined in a loose circle about low, lacquered tables. Lanterns sent a golden light over silver cups filled with rich red wine. Bottles were strewn about platters heaped with roasted game, thick bread slices sprinkled with herbs, and bowls of olives shining in oil.

Their armor was shed, left in tidy piles beside the doorway, so they stood in loose linen tunics clinging thinly to their bodies. Boots had been kicked off carelessly, feet stretching out toward comfortable cushions. The heaviness of battle was distant here—faces glowed with ease, with laughter that mounted from the belly, full and unselfconscious. The war might have been on another planet.

Each stare had been pulled, nearly in spite of itself, to the center of the tent.

Three women walked there, bodies bathed in the liquid light of the fire. Their clothing—if one could even term it that—was nothing more than a hint of silk and shadow, not designed to conceal but to entice. Every shift of their hips held the burden of promises unspoken; every cautious sway stirred waves of warmth through the air. In the background of the distant throng, the soft tinkle of ankle bells blended itself into the smooth, sustained vibration of a lute being played somewhere in the shadows.

One of them, dark-haired and sinuous, flexed her back until the hair fell down like a cascade of midnight ink, hips rolling into a rhythm that drew the eye and held it fast. Another, eyes as wet and green as emeralds, turned so that the fire caught in the depths of them, her smile poised on the edge of something treacherous between temptation and challenge. The third bent low until her golden fall of hair swept across the carpets, and then slowly stood again, her body describing a curve that seemed to thicken the very air.

The men were frozen. Some leaned forward without knowing it, wine glasses suspended mid-way to their lips, their eyes fixed in the trance-like grip of the dance. The world outside the tent did not exist for a moment—no war, no metal, no blood. Only heat from bodies swaying to a primal beat and the soft slap of bare feet on woven rugs.

Then—footsteps.

Not rushed. Heavy. Purposeful. Getting closer.

Heads turned individually, the spell shattering in pieces.

Out of the shadowed entrance of the tent, a figure stepped forth—tall, cloaked all in black, the folds of the cloak soaking up every rag of lantern light. It was as if the fire itself refused to touch him.

The music of the lute fattered.

The dancers froze.

And silence swept the room.