"You want to capture him?" Harken's eyebrows rose.

"Did you not just hear the casualty figures?"

"I want samples. Blood, tissue, genetic material. If he's operating openly in the desert, there may be opportunities to acquire such samples through less direct means. Medical facilities he's visited, battlefields where he's bled: there are options beyond direct confrontation."

"That's a research proposal, not an immediate operational concern," Elena said.

"We can table that for future consideration."

Kristoff looked around the chamber, reading the consensus forming among the Mantarons.

They were leaning toward disengagement, toward cutting losses rather than escalating. It went against his military instincts, you don't leave enemies undefeated, and you don't show weakness, but he was experienced enough to recognize when he was outvoted.

"Very well," he said finally.

"I'll draft a recommendation for the Great Emperor: classify the desert region as low-priority, redirect military assets to other operations, and maintain surveillance but avoid engagement unless directly threatened. Does anyone object?"

No one did.

"Then we're agreed. The Sol'vur heir gets his victory. For now."

Kristoff's expression suggested he didn't like it, but he'd accept it.

"Though I want intelligence to keep close watch. If circumstances change, if he becomes an active threat beyond defending his territory, we revisit this discussion."

The Mantarons nodded their agreement, and the meeting began shifting to other topics: trade negotiations, border disputes, and resource allocation in other regions.

The desert, and the crimson-eyed Sorcerer who'd bloodied the Empire's nose, would be left alone.

At least for now.

*

Constance's Chambers - Late Evening

Constance sat by the window of her private quarters, looking out over the Imperial capital's sprawling expanse. Lights glittered in the darkness, millions of people going about their lives, unaware of or unconcerned with the military defeat that was being carefully managed and suppressed.

Her mind kept returning to the battlefield.

To Jorghan's transformed state, nine feet tall, eyes blazing, moving with speed that exceeded her suit's tracking. To the moment her blade shattered against his fist, her best equipment failing against raw power. To lying broken on the sand, waiting for the killing blow that never came.

He'd spared them.

Why?

She'd gone over it a thousand times, analyzing every possible motivation. Strategic reasoning made sense: survivors would carry tales of his power to make future engagements more costly.

But there'd been something else, something in the way he'd looked at them before turning away.

Almost like regret.

As if killing them would have cost him something he wasn't willing to pay.

Her communication device chimed, a priority message.

She activated it, and Yvonne's face appeared in the holographic display.

"Commander. Thought you should know, the Mantaron Council just concluded their assessment of the desert operation."

"And?"

"They're recommending disengagement. No further operations in that region, at least not in the immediate future. The costs are deemed too high for the strategic value."

Constance absorbed this without visible reaction.

"So we're abandoning the mission."

"We're redirecting resources to more valuable targets," Yvonne corrected gently.

"There's no shame in recognizing when an objective isn't worth the price."

"Isn't there?" Constance's voice was bitter.

"We lost thousands of soldiers. We lost our Haelve deployment. We lost an entire fleet. And now we're just... walking away."

"Sometimes that's the right decision. Sometimes retreat is smarter than stubborn advance." Yvonne paused. "Will you accept it? The Mantaron recommendation?"

Constance was silent for a long moment, her reflection visible in the window glass, a young woman who looked older than her years, carrying weights that shouldn't rest on shoulders so young.

"I don't know," she finally admitted.

"Right now, I don't know anything except that my brother is broken, my father is angry at me, and the person responsible is being left unpunished."

"He defended his people," Yvonne said quietly.

"We attacked his territory. From his perspective, he's the victim, not the aggressor."

"Since when do you defend enemies of the Empire?"

"I don't. I defend reality over narrative. And the reality is we picked a fight with someone who was stronger than anticipated. That's not his fault—it's our intelligence failure."

Constance wanted to argue, wanted to maintain the righteous anger that had driven her through the battle and the days since. But exhaustion was winning, wearing down her certainty, making everything feel more complicated than it had seemed when they'd deployed to the desert.

"Get some rest, Commander," Yvonne said, her tone softening.

"Let your body heal. Let Young master Caden heal. Everything else can wait."

The communication ended, and Constance was alone again with her thoughts and the glittering city beyond her window.

Somewhere far to the south, past the borders of the Empire, in the desert where blood had soaked into sand and legends were being born, Jorghan Sol'vur was probably sleeping off his own injuries, surrounded by family and clan, celebrated as a hero.

While she sat here, isolated in her quarters, watching her brother fight for his life, trying to process defeat that tasted like ashes.

She didn't hate him, she realized.

Despite everything, despite the deaths and the destruction and the humiliation of being so thoroughly defeated, she couldn't quite manage hatred.

Respect, perhaps.

Fear, certainly.

A burning need to understand how someone so young could wield such overwhelming power.

But not hate.

That realization was somehow more disturbing than the hatred would have been.

Because hatred would have been simple.

And nothing about Jorghan Sol'vur was simple.

***

The morning air was cool as Jorghan stood beside Sigora at the departure point, looking up at the magnificent creature before them.

Only two of them were leaving.

The clans would come individually, as it was required by the council.

Sarhita was given the charge of the clan while her father would leave for the meeting. Katisana would be coming with Kal'tun.

The Swarafa was unlike anything he'd seen: a bird easily forty feet from beak to tail, with pristine white plumage that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. Its wingspan had to exceed eighty feet when fully extended, each feather as long as his arm.

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