Dawn in the imperial city arrived with the pale clarity of ice. Bells from the morning watch had barely faded when the Emperor stood at the study window, robe half-fastened, a scroll still in his hand. The candle beside him burned low, the wax forming strange ridges like small white mountains. He had not slept.
Across the desk lay open ledgers—lists of men, wagons, coin, and grain—each marked by his brush in swift, decisive strokes. The border, that constant bleeding wound of the empire, finally pulsed with order again, but order built on exhaustion needed tending.
He turned the last page and reread the report that had arrived before sunrise.
> To His Majesty,
From Han Yi, Commander at the Eastern Front,
