Shale stood in the slush, rifle at his side, fingers numb despite his gloves. He was grateful, in a way, that his unit—Cedar Company—and one other light infantry company had been called in for the peace summit, alongside two full regiments of dryad shock troops. Word was, they'd finally get something to eat. Real food, not bark biscuits and stale seed paste. That hope kept him upright, even as the waiting—gods, the endless standing at attention—turned his legs to iron and his patience to mold. The cold wasn’t what bothered him. It was the waiting. Always the waiting.

  The peace summit at Birchwood Meadow was supposed to be the end of it. The final nail in the coffin of a war that had gnawed at the world for fifty years. Shale had been ordered here—him and a hundred other infantrymen, lined up neat in rows like parade toys, their black greatcoats hiding the patches and tears, their rifles gleaming to cow the humans into submission. Show force. Remind the Solokhians who won.

  He adjusted his cap, eyes scanning the field. Birchwood Meadow had been a farm once. You could still see the scars—charred fence posts, the skeletal remains of a barn, the faint scent of ash beneath the snow. Empire banners flapped at the edges of the clearing, bright red against gray skies. Makeshift tents housed the Livadian delegation, neat and orderly, while a muddy space had been cleared for the Solokhian representatives.

  Shale squinted toward the imperial carriage, expecting the familiar figure of Arictus to descend with his hard jaw and colder eyes. Instead, a boy stepped out.

  Phiniaster. The son.

  Shale’s gut tightened. Where was Arictus? The old bastard wouldn’t miss a summit like this. He’d be front and center, reminding everyone who held the crown. But it wasn’t him. It was the boy, dressed in ceremonial robes that hung too heavy on his shoulders.

  Oh rot, Shale thought. We’re in trouble now.

  The Solokhians arrived on foot. No banners, no fanfare. Just men. Dozens of them, their greatcoats frayed at the edges, boots caked in mud. Their leader—a bull-necked officer with a thick mustache and sunken eyes—marched at their head. He wore his hunger like armor, bones sharp beneath stretched skin, but his gaze never wavered.

  Shale met that gaze across the field. He’d seen it before. A man who wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t break, no matter how much you starved him. Livadia had sent fire, mageia, steel. But the Solokhians stood.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Kuda Dawnriser stepped forward, golden cloak flowing behind him, voice sharp as frost. “We are here to formalize your surrender,” he announced, his words carrying over the meadow. “Livadia offers mercy to those who accept our terms.”

  The Solokhian officer waited. His lips pressed thin, his hands behind his back.

  Dawnriser listed the terms: dismantling Solokhian factories, ceasing coal mining, submitting to imperial law. The usual. Shale had heard it before. He could recite the script himself. Always the same demands, always the same arrogance.

  When the officer spoke, his words came rough, thick with the Solokhian accent. “We lose war, yes. We lose many sons.” His Nadic was broken, the grammar twisted like the roots of a storm-bent tree. “But we do not break.”

  He swept his hand toward the Livadian lines, meeting their eyes, daring them to look away. “You bring rifles, banners, fire-men in gold. We come with empty stomach. We starve, but we endure.”

  Shale’s jaw clenched. The Solokhian’s voice didn’t rise, but it carried the weight of steel. “You take land. You take cities. But spirit—you no take.”

  Phiniaster flinched. Shale saw it. The boy’s hands trembled at his sides, eyes darting to Dawnriser, to the Golden Guard, then back to the Solokhian officer.

  The officer’s closing words rang through the meadow. “Solokhian man feeds on pride. We no need mercy of elven crown.”

  Silence followed. The Livadian soldiers stiffened. Even the Golden Guard’s mageia flickered, their palms itching for fire.

  Then Phiniaster spoke.

  His voice cracked, soft, almost unsure. “Then let Livadia offer grain,” he said. “Let us give food to the Solokhian people. The war is over. Let us heal together.”

  A pause. No one breathed.

  Dawnriser’s expression didn’t move, but Shale saw the twitch in his jaw, the barely contained fury behind his golden eyes. The Livadian officers exchanged glances, muttered under their breaths.

  Shale’s stomach twisted. He’s cracked, he thought. Oh blight me, the boy’s cracked wide open.

  The Solokhian officer smiled—not wide, not grateful. It was a thin curl of the lips, a wolf’s grin. “We take grain,” he said. “We use it. But we no bow.”

  Phiniaster nodded, as if that settled it. As if the wolves would not bare their teeth again.

  Shale felt the weight of every battle, every fallen comrade, press against his chest. Fifty years of blood in the mud—and now they fed the enemy.

  As the Solokhians turned to leave, heads held high, Shale watched the pride return to their step. Mercy had planted seeds of rebellion. He could feel it.

  This peace was nothing but a ceasefire.

  https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B07H1MKKXC