Mei-Ling wasn't technically allowed to leave her bed, yet after countless days of confinement, every fiber of her being rebelled against the restrictions. Draped in a loosely wrapped shawl that whispered against her skin and soft slippers that padded silently on the stone floor, she slipped past the dozing guards outside her chamber. One guard slumped against the wall with his chin resting on his chest as sleep claimed him, while the other was completely absorbed in what appeared to be an obsessive count of the intricately laid stones in the mosaic wall—though sometimes she wondered if he was simply lost in reverie.
She moved through the corridor with the quiet grace of a wandering ghost. "Just a simple walk," she reassured herself in a hushed tone, thinking of stretching her aching legs and even sneaking a small morsel from the palace kitchens—a treat of something strangely addictive with either salt, sugar, or perhaps a beguiling fusion of both. Approaching the bend that led her toward the kitchens, she suddenly halted. There were distinct, purposeful voices floating ahead—not the casual banter of servants or guards, but sharp, deliberate tones that resonated with a sense of urgency from the war room.
Her heart quickened as she paused in the shadowed corridor, hesitating only for a moment before crept closer, step by careful step, and with deliberate silence. It wasn't exactly eavesdropping that drove her onward; curiosity was stronger—the desperate need to witness Aelric in a manner entirely different from the stoic armored guardian she had known, the silent sentinel by her bedside. She had never seen him as a king, nor witnessed the fierce determination blazing like fire in his eyes when issuing commands.
Reaching the ancient archway just outside the chamber, her fingers brushed the cold, rough stone as if attempting to draw courage from it. Inside the war room, the murmurs grew keeping pace with her thudding heart. "...burning everything," a voice declared urgently. "Every road, every farmstead west of the Sapphire Hills—nothing remains but ash." Her breath caught in her throat when the name Fenglian reverberated in the strained tones of the speaker.
Without another thought adding to her mounting anxiety, she stepped through the archway and into the room. The atmosphere was oppressive—the air heavy with the acrid tang of smoke and the raw taste of fear. Maps, their edges curled and blackened by the heat of the torches dancing nearby, lay strewn across a long oak table. Around it, advisors in polished armor and sumptuous velvet robes stood in a disquieting silence, each face etched with concern after hearing the messenger's chilling report.
"They're burning everything," the messenger had repeated in a hollow, despairing voice. "Every village. Every road. Every farmstead west of the Sapphire Hills—nothing left but ash." At the head of the table stood Aelric, unmoving and imposing, his hand white-knuckled as it gripped the edge of a map like it was his last tether to hope.
A council member, his voice barely above a whisper laden with dread, murmured, "They call him the Demon Emperor... Fenglian." Another councilor leaned in with whispered urgency, "Where did he come from? Who is he? And what does he want?"
Aelric's own low, cutting voice then shattered the silence: "What does he want?" His words hung in the thick, charged air, and for a long moment, no answer came until—
Then Mei-Ling's voice, unexpectedly clear and resolute, broke through the tension. "He's from my world." The declaration rippled through the room, causing every head to turn in startled unison. Standing in the doorway, her shawl tightly wrapped around her shoulders and her face marked by a calm determination that defied the storm raging in her pulse, she held every gaze upon her.
Aelric's eyes locked with hers, betraying a flicker of surprise that quickly gave way to deep concern. "You shouldn't be here," he said softly, his tone blending admonishment with worry.
Stepping forward with measured caution, her voice scarcely louder than the whisper of the fabric around her, she confessed, "I heard... I wanted to know what was happening." Instantly, all eyes—those of scholars, generals, and statesmen—converged on her, each voice and expression silently acknowledging the gravity of her words.
"He's not here by accident," she continued with an almost tremulous resolve. "He's searching for me. Fenglian—you see, he's here for me."
The heavy silence shattered into chaotic fragments. Chancellor Vireth's voice, taut with disbelief, snapped, "You're saying that this... creature crossed into our realm because of you?"
Mei-Ling nodded slowly, almost as though the weight of her own admission pinned her in place. "He ruled as a tyrant in my world—a relentless conqueror. When I escaped, I shattered his hold. And now, whether to reclaim what he lost or to wreak further devastation, he has crossed over."
Vjetromor's tone cut through the rising crescendo of voices, laced with betrayal: "And you didn't think to warn us earlier?"
Her voice faltered slightly as Mei-Ling replied, "I never believed he could follow me here... I was unaware." Soon, a storm of overlapping whispers erupted—voices filled with panic, strategic urgings, and bitter accusations. "He won't stop—" one cried, while another countered, "Not until he has her—" and yet another demanded, "We cannot risk the capital—"
Aelric's command sliced through the discord. "Enough." The chamber fell into a heavy, expectant silence as all eyes turned back to him. He then faced Mei-Ling, his tone softening into something almost tender as he asked, "How certain are you?"
Meeting his unwavering gaze, she whispered, "He's not merely after power. He's after me." Aelric's jaw tightened visibly, a silent testament to the storm brewing within him.
From across the table, a dissonant voice intruded upon the fragile calm, "Then perhaps we should give him what he wants." The words landed like a cold blade among the gathered assembly. Chancellor Vireth, unflinching, argued, "If it stops the burning, if it spares our realm—even if one life is exchanged for thousands—"
"No," Aelric interjected sharply, and every council member instinctively turned their gaze toward him.
Chancellor Vireth straightened, his tone measured yet urgent, "Your Majesty, this isn't personal..."
"It is now," Aelric replied, his voice rising with controlled fury. "I will not give her over."
"She is not of royal blood," Vireth added, his voice laced with cold pragmatism. "She bears no title or the obligations of royalty..."
"She is under my protection," Aelric cut in firmly. The air in the room grew taut with tension as his eyes burned with an intensity that defied any simple explanation. "I will never surrender her—not to a tyrant, not to a demon, and certainly not if it means watching our kingdom smolder into ruin alongside me." His proclamation reverberated chillingly through the war room, compelling every whisper to vanish.
Yet, from the back of the room, another steady voice broke through the silence. "No."
Aelric spun around, startled, as Mei-Ling stepped forward with a resolve that belied her pale, trembling face. "I won't allow people to perish on my account," she declared, her words carrying a sorrowful truth. "I won't let history repeat itself."
"You're not—" Aelric began, but she gently interjected, "This isn't about what I mean to you. It's about what I represent to them—to the villages already lost, to the families forced to flee. Every soldier dispatched to stop him is caught in the crossfire because of me."
Aelric's strained voice pleaded, "You're not responsible for him."
Softly, almost as if confessing a terrible secret, she replied, "I brought him here—even if it was unintentional, even if I was unaware. It doesn't matter now. He's here because of me."
A profound silence enveloped them both, long and arduous. "I'll go," she finally declared, the words landing heavier than any weapon.
They resonated deeply within Aelric; he managed only a halting, "No," as if that single word could undo the inevitable.
Determination hardened in her tone as she continued, "I will find him, and I will end this."
"You won't survive," he murmured, his tone laden with a mix of despair and defiance.
"I might," she countered, her voice quiet yet unyielding. "But if I remain here, none of us will."
In that moment, Aelric reached for her—a fleeting grasp, a hesitant touch, a silent plea wrapped in the brush of fingers against her arm. It wasn't just contact; it was a confession. Their eyes met, and in that brief, unguarded exchange, he saw no fear, no retreat—only a quiet, aching acceptance. A sorrow steeped in courage. The kind carried by someone who had already made peace with walking into the fire.
"I have to do this," she whispered, the words barely stirring the heavy air between them.
"I'll leave at dawn," she added, softer still.
And in the stillness that followed, there was nothing left for him to offer—no argument, no promise. Only silence. And the quiet surrender that came with it.