Juliet didn’t know when she had dropped to her knees, but there she was trembling, desperate, broken. She dragged herself toward Asher like a child begging for her life, ignoring the ash on her palms or the judgmental eyes watching her. “Please, Asher…” her voice cracked, thick with tears. “Please… save my parents.” Asher didn’t flinch. His face remained emotionless — cold, detached. Not even a flicker of empathy danced in his eyes. He coughed once, not out of weakness but as if mocking her weakness. This… this was the same woman who once dared to stand above him? He stared at her, thinking back to everything she had done in the past. Not only what she had done to these sick people. The humiliation of his parents and her infidelity. Juliet must think he had taken it lightly but Asher had only let her be because his mother asked for mercy on her behalf. But then, he knew the kind of woman Juliet was. She was going to slip again and Asher knew it. But he had promised to be there when sh

”Come on, let me have the letter. What does it say?” Juliet quickly said in anticipation as Alia, quickly shut the door behind her before rushing toward her mistress. Juliet didn’t wait. With trembling fingers, she wiped away her tears and tore open the letter, her breath catching as her eyes scanned the words written in dark blue ink — elegant and commanding. Every line seemed to leap from the page, not as letters, but as images — vivid, living memories that unfolded in her mind. With each word, she saw him again. The sharp eyes, the salt-kissed skin, the commanding presence. Her lips parted. A shaky breath escaped. “He’s coming back…” “Yes, ma’am,” Alia confirmed softly. “He is.” Juliet’s voice rose with growing hope. “He’s coming back?” “Yes.” A gasp escaped Juliet’s lips. “Yes… yes… finally!” She clasped her hands together, her fingers curling into each other as her heart pounded against her chest. “Finally. Finally, Finally…” Master Fischer. No ordinary man. He was a sailor — but

The next morning, the court convened as usual. Ministers assembled in their designated positions, their ceremonial robes fluttering slightly with each calculated movement. The court hearing commenced promptly, and as tradition demanded, the first matter of discussion was raised by Minister Ambrose. Most especially, the issue with the Archers and Asher. The news has spread like wildfire around Drakemont. And now the ministers thought it was an issue to be addressed. Regardless of the fact that the ruler respects Asher. The dignity of the Archers as one of the influential people at court also mattered. Ambrose’s voice echoed across the hall as he criticized the general’s behavior, stirring murmurs among the ministers. He never liked Asher anyways so he had fun doing this. Especially when Asher isn’t here. What followed was a cascade of opinions, all heavily tilted against General Archer. Minister after minister spoke, some with disdain, others with carefully concealed irritation, claimi

At that point, Ambrose knew he had to speak. Whatever flames the State Chancellor was trying to ignite which was meant to burn Asher or even consume him in disgrace had to be fueled. He stepped forward. “Well, General,” Ambrose said smoothly, his eyes narrowing, “to fill you in on what you’ve just walked into… the State Chancellor recommended you to oversee the visit of the Nazim envoys. They’re due in two days.” There was no shift in the Chancellor’s expression. No denial or backtracking. He simply turned his eyes to Asher with a calm, clipped stare that said it all: Yes. I said it. Asher was slow to respond. “The Nazims?” he repeated. His mind flashed. The ruler had written to him about them countless times when he was away at war. The letters were filled with warnings, requests and veiled desperation. Asher had never actually met the Nazims. He’d left home too young, left long before the Nazims grip tightened. Back then, they hadn’t dared approach Drakemont directly. His father, th

The road ahead was choked with men. From the passenger seat, Morgana narrowed her eyes, scanning the cluster blocking their way. Asher sat in the back, one elbow resting against the door, expression unreadable. The faint hum of the engine filled the tense silence inside the vehicle. “General, I’ll go check what’s going on.” Morgana announced. He didn’t answer. Besides, he didn’t have to. His stillness was as good as a dismissal. Morgana pushed the door open, her boots crunching against the gravel. A breeze caught the edge of her coat as she stepped into the open. The men ahead were dressed strangely—nothing like the locals. Loose sailor shirts billowed in the wind, their trousers rugged and frayed from long use. Boots bore salt stains as if they had spent months treading decks under unforgiving seas. Their coats were weathered, smelling faintly of brine even from a distance. Her eyes sharpened. Seafarers. And not the casual, drunken kind who loitered in port towns. These were ha