General Byteron let out a frustrated growl when someone knocked on his door.

"Come in."

He glowered over the table, the map of the land above the Jaruvion Sea upon it. Little balls of light illuminated part of it, and a few lines were scattered here and there. The soldier before him stood unfazed, already used to the general's glares, but regardless, he waited to be spoken to first.

"What now?" General Byteron snapped.

"General Meixong has sent a message informing us that they plan to arrive today." The soldier frowned as he held the letter out to him. "The general failed to mention a time, however."

"Damn woman's probably already here," General Byteron groused, snatching the paper and inspecting the seal. As the soldier continued to stand in place, he glared over the top of the letter. "Well? What are you standing around here for? Go prepare for her arrival!"

With a curt bow, the soldier left the room. Despite his annoyance, Byteron was surprised that Meixong was coming to him themself. It wasn't often the generals of entire divisions met in person, so whatever Meixong wanted to talk about must be important. And even then, the Head of Information had only been back in Tarkon for a few months. Perhaps this could've been more common before the Recession, back when Meixong was a minor general and back before he took over the front—he was supposed to be retired, dammit!—but then the Council decided they needed an entire unit dedicated to information, and the previous general over the front managed to get himself killed. Inconvenient. Now it was he, Dagmire, and Meixong at the top but still at the whims of the Council of Thirds.

Not that Byteron envied Meixong for fast-tracking several ranks to be placed at the top. Their jobs weren't easy. The Council needed certain people to fill these roles—Dagmire for his power, Meixong for their mind, and himself for his experience—but that wouldn't stop him from thinking the Council made a mistake with Meixong. Meixong wasn't known for their belief in the Council, nor would they make it easy to get rid of them. That, and they had other things to worry about, now. The Council's only consolation was the fact that Meixong would gladly disappear once the war was over.

By the time another knock sounded from his door, Byteron had migrated over to his desk. Papers littered atop, just the same as any of the other generals, but his were few while the rest sat on the map table behind him. Soldiers on the front didn't have time to write lengthy reports. Another knock, and Byteron swore vehemently.

"Come in!"

The door swung open, and Meixong was quick to shut it behind them as they strode in. Byteron never understood what went through their head much like he never understood why they insisted on wearing the clothes of the common soldier. A simple white button-up and black trousers that faded all too quickly. At least the white shirt looked to be new unlike some of the yellowing fabrics he's seen other soldiers galavanting around in. Their trousers, however, contrasted sharply with Meixong's sturdy black boots—the only wise decision he'd seen them make so far. That, and the wide leather belt around their waist to protect their abdomen. Judging by the scratches and deep slashes, the leather was made from the same material as most dragon saddles and had served its purpose well. Why they hadn't replaced it yet? He didn't know. He knew the Meixongs weren't pressed for money—they weren't a high mage family, but they were well off nonetheless—so he didn't understand why Meixong didn't simply get something tailored, or at least something of better quality.

"Lady Meixong. Is it too late to welcome you back?" Byteron greeted and returned to his work when Meixong said nothing. Meixong was quick to raise an eyebrow.

"General is preferred. And if you can manage it, I'll ask you to refrain from calling me sir or lady of any kind."

"What do you have your men call you, then?"

"Soldiers. And a, 'Yes, General,' works well enough, but if they call me 'sir' or 'ma'am' on occasion, I won't reprimand them."

"How needlessly complicated."

"That's why I address it immediately so a habit can be formed. Their perception of me doesn't need to be warped by what I have biologically. Much like I didn't need your staring as you tried to figure out what you were looking at."

Byteron let out an annoyed grunt before turning back to the table and walking around to the far side of it, keeping Meixong within his sight. "I know what I'm looking at, and I know who I'm looking at. It was the state of your clothes. I don't see why you insist on wearing what rags the Council gives out freely; I know you aren't struggling with finances."

"It's harder to pick one from the crowd if you look like the rest of them." Meixong roamed to the desk, glancing over the documents before heading to the table. Byteron didn't stop nor tell them off, it was more than likely those reports had passed by Meixong already. "Something that's needed, especially now."

"You're talking about the assassinations," Byteron stated. Many made the mistake of overthinking Meixong's statements. He, however, knew better. It was when someone began looking at their ulterior motives that they would go insane, and he avoided it at all costs along with conversations in general. Byteron's eyes narrowed. "Is this why you're here?"

Meixong made a so-so gesture, not even bothering to look at Byteron as they gazed down at the map. "Something interesting happened during the Council of Thirds' meeting. Don't take my presence to offense, but I'm simply following a trail that happens to lead to you."

"That you are investigating yourself? My, my, must be important." Byteron added another light to the map, only for Meixong to move it more toward the mountains.

"Kinsmen are out that way. You may not have gotten the report yet."

"Stick to your job."

"Fair enough." Meixong chose not to comment on how the light didn't move.

Byteron's brow continued to furrow as Meixong's silence stretched on. "Spit it out."

"The Council did as they do best—not address the issue and pat themselves on the back for a job well done—but something odd was brought up. I sent Nagania Elvar and Valrin in my stead, and from Valrin's report from the encounter, the translator for a Saremakian high mage, Grandmaster Tananhk Aki'alan, was speaking falsely according to Nagan. Nagan's loyalty then came into question due to him being possibly related to one of the Kinsmen's leaders, Mosabi Rasek, along with several other things that spanned previous trips to Sa'aremak and phrases he's said over the years. Petty accusations, but he is being investigated as we speak."

"By you?"

Meixong scoffed. "I am investigating his primary accuser, Master Jephro Erswell."

"What?" Byteron's attention snapped up at Meixong in an instant, fiercely scowling. "Why is he being investigated?"

"Oh? You didn't send a representative of your own?"

Byteron gritted his teeth. "Answer me."

"Amidst Master Erswell's accusations, he mentioned things that he had no reason to know. He is suspected of reading non-public documents as well as various cases of minor treason." Meixong's gaze wandered off to the side, not focusing on anything in particular. "I'm afraid I can't say much more than that, but the Council is bound to send you a report of what the official scribes recorded from the meeting. They'll send you what they want people to hear."

Byteron rolled his eyes at Meixong's jab at the Council. "If the Council is taking care of this, how did you get involved in the first place?"

"Laws are strange when it comes to the child soldiers. Yes, Nagan reports to a captain for the most part, but he's ultimately under my direct command. The same applies to any of the other soldiers called from Carvolier that are still within the Information Unit."

"Are you sure it's not because the halfspawn was fond of him?"

Meixong didn't respond, and Byteron looked up from the table to see why. He half expected the other general to be scowling or even not paying attention at all—they were good at feigning that—but instead, he was met with something else. A blank expression and watching eyes. It was not an unfamiliar expression, and many interpreted it as calculating or indifferent. Some even saw it as a way of Meixong silently cursing them. Perhaps it meant all the above, but many unwittingly chose to overlook the context. No, Meixong wasn't angry—far from it—but caught off guard.

"What?" Meixong breathed. Byteron almost laughed that the simplest of accusations could make the famously straight-faced genius break their composure.

"Your relationship with Fai was always strange to me," Byteron began idly, setting a ring of light over an already completed battle. "You didn't cross paths often, but when you did, you were...rather close. Were you lovers, perchance?"

Meixong's expression remained the same, almost disbelieving, as they shrugged, their eyes still watching Byteron carefully. "It's not uncommon for people to take on a few lovers in their early years. It's the sensual part of courting. I'm sure you did as well, such a man like yourself." They then smiled. "Or did you take them after you were married? Who knows, maybe there's someone under your desk."

"I thought you knew better than to spout things you know nothing about, Meixong," Byteron snapped.

"Oh, are we not playing rumors?" Meixong placed both of their hands on the table. "Then let's stop playing and get back to why I'm here."

Byteron gritted his teeth at Meixong's condescending tone, his hands curling into fists. He didn't understand what game the other was playing at, but he was not one to be disrespected like this. He asked the questions, the other gave the answers. Perhaps it was time for the genius general to learn their place when they were in his domain.

With deliberate strides, he stalked over to the other side of the table where Meixong stood. Meixong, meanwhile, kept still with their hands still flat against the table. Their posture held no tension. Other than their eyes, they held perfectly still. Byteron sneered at that. He placed his hand next to Meixong's, firm enough to shake the table entirely, while his other settled on their lower back, not quite caging them in, but not leaving enough room for them to move at all.

"I mean it, Yenhei. It's best not to go around spreading rumors like those. Maybe you should take a page from the halfspawn's mentor—the man who's been missing for a decade—and keep your mouth shut for once."

Meixong didn't flinch, even when touched. Instead, they laughed and grabbed the hand next to theirs.

Before Byteron could jerk away, he was blown back, landing flat on his back. He gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, but just as he struggled to sit up, his eyes widened in horror. A sword plunged deep into his gut, slowly being pulled down by an invisible force and cutting him open. Blood bubbled out and drained down his sides. He scrambled back, futilely trying to escape.

"What?" he choked, his blood cold as cold steel continued to be stained red. "What are you doing...to..."

"Doing what?"

In an instant, everything disappeared. No sword, no blood, and his stomach was intact. His attention snapped back up to Meixong. There was no sword nor even a sword belt on their person. They never entered with one. Not even their position changed, them still with their hands planted on the table, leaning over slightly as if they were evaluating the map below. But there was one thing that did change, however. Their head had turned to look over their shoulder, just enough for Byteron to see their eyes, watching.

"Why are you on the floor, General?" they asked, their voice pitched deliberately and sweetly. "I thought you said we were done playing games." They returned to an idle tone. "You of all people calling me Yenhei reminds me of something. I chose my Tarkovish name long before I knew I would end up here, but it turned out to be quite fitting in the end. Yenhei fits nicely, but with a name that means, 'Never left to wander,' it's more of a touching sentiment my mother wished upon me. Hark, however, is archaic for 'to look' or 'to hear.' As head of information, it's fair to say I hear a lot of things."

Meixong suddenly turned and crossed the distance with ease. Byteron didn't even have time to scramble back when they crouched next to him, grabbing his wrist. The sword was back in his stomach, and they were no longer in his office. Dark bricks surrounded them with the only source of light being a smoldering torch. The smell of acrid smoke burned his nostrils, and he could've sworn there were chains around his legs. Everything disappeared before he could confirm, Meixong still holding onto his wrist with a tight grip.

"But let's not forget where the Council thought my specialty was the most useful. I wasn't always a general, you know. You can have your false sense of control once I leave, but for now, this is a...friendly, interrogation. I am in control." Meixong let go of Byteron's wrist shortly after, and they stood. They walked over to his desk, finally taking a seat, and motioned casually for Byteron to do the same. "On that note, if you insist on using first names, Fenvar, call me Hark. Let's start our discussion."

•_____________________•

Is it narcissistic of me to say Meixong is still my favorite character?