After eight years of campaigns across Asia, the banners of your empire hung heavy with dust. The last two wars had been lost, and the thunder of your armies was gone.

In the great hall, your marshals and ministers gathered, their armor dulled, their robes weary. No one dared to look too long at you seated on the high seat. The silence pressed down until your oldest marshal finally stepped forward.

“My lord,” he said, his voice tight, “the enemy has offered terms. They will not bind you, nor humiliate you. Instead, they grant you exile to the islands of Andaman and Nicobar. A thousand men may follow you. They call it… an honorable exile.”

A few ministers shifted, some bowing their heads, others staring at the floor with clenched jaws. The words hung in the air, echoing against the cold stone.