They rode for six days, following the imperial post-road that sliced through the last barley fields and then vanished under pine-dark hills.
On the seventh morning the world turned white—early snow drifting like ash from a fire no one could see.
Lan Yue kept to the centre of the column: twenty northern riders ahead, twenty imperial behind, Bai Feng occasionally dropping back to ride at her side as if escorting a treasured relic.
Conversation was sparse; the wind ate words before they reached ears.
Instead she listened: to hoof-beats, to the creak of saddle leather, to accents that slipped when riders cursed the cold—some voices carried the flat vowels of the capital, not the north.
Spies among wolves, she noted. Wolves among spies.
Night camp — pine ridge
Tents went up like grey sails. Imperial guards built twin fires; northerners built one larger, seating themselves around it in a crescent that left an obvious gap for Yue.
Protocol said she must join—guest of honour, hostage in practice.
She sat, cloak fur-lined, white armour hidden beneath.
Bai Feng poured kumis into a silver bowl and handed it to her first—northern custom: the guest drinks, then the host.
She lifted the bowl, sniffed fermented mare's milk, and met his gaze.
"To shared fires," she said, and drank. The sour burn coated her throat; she did not cough.
Laughter rippled; tension eased a fraction.
A warrior with a scar splitting his eyebrow leaned forward.
"Tell us, swan-maiden, do southern girls dream of snow?"
"I dream of roads that lead home," she answered. "Snow is only scenery."
Bai Feng watched her over the flames.
"Scenery can bury armies. Your prince sends you north to look at scenery?"
"He sends me to look at friends," she said, and placed the empty bowl upside-down between them—imperial signal: I trust you enough to turn my cup.
A small gesture, but the firelight shifted in Bai Feng's eyes.
Tent interior — past midnight
Canvas walls thrummed with wind. She sat cross-legged, map unrolled by lamplight: inked rivers, mountain passes, the Wolf King's stronghold at Ice-Lock Keep.
She marked patrol routes she'd memorised, accents she'd catalogued.
A soft scratch at the tent flap.
"Enter."
The veiled woman in black slipped inside, face still hidden.
She set a small bundle on the rug: flat loaves, dried berries, a flask of hot pine tea.
"Eat," the woman murmured. "Tomorrow's climb is long."
Yue studied the slender hands—calloused at knuckles, sword callouses.
"Who are you?"
A pause; then the woman lowered her veil.
Yue's breath caught.
Not a stranger at all—Liang Ying, daughter of the former Northern March Governor, vanished three years ago during a border purge. Everyone assumed her dead; the court had mourned by reflex.
Ying's eyes were older, harder, but unmistakable.
"I serve the Wolf King now," she said quietly. "As hostage, as adviser—as sword, when required."
Yue found her voice. "Your father's province still weeps."
"And my mother's bones lie beneath Ice-Lock's foundation stone. Loyalties shift like snow."
Ying pushed the tea closer. "Drink. I come with a message: the King will offer you three trials before he accepts you as 'bride'. Win them and you live as ally; fail and you become corpse-diplomacy. Bai Feng will announce them at the keep gates."
Yue wrapped both hands around the cup, warmth bleeding into her palms.
"Why warn me?"
"Because some games need two players alive." Ying's gaze flicked to the tent roof, listening. "And because the dragon prince once sent medicine to my dying mother—anonymously. Debts are debts."
She stood to leave, then hesitated.
"Third ridge before sunrise—look for wolf-paw print carved into pine bark. That trail bypasses the avalanche chute they intend you to ride. Use it if you value hooves over broken bones."
Veil back in place, she slipped into the night.
Dawn — the ridge
Snow had stopped; sky blushed rose. The column wound upward along a narrow shelf.
Yue waited until the path narrowed to single file, then nudged her mare until she rode directly behind Bai Feng.
At the carved paw-print she angled right, pretending to adjust a loose girth strap.
Her mare picked the side trail without protest; imperial guards followed; northerners, caught ahead, had no choice but to continue the main route.
Minutes later a low rumble echoed—snow slab giving way.
Screams, then silence. When the column reunited lower down, three northern riders and two imperial were missing—buried beneath white rubble.
Bai Feng's stare drilled into her.
"Fortune favours your path, swan."
"Fortune favours prepared hooves," she answered, breath frosting.
His smile was thin, but he said no more.
Evening — foothill village
They lodged in a timber longhouse. Smoke holes leaked starlight.
Children peeked from behind felt curtains, eyes round at the southern girl in white armour.
An old woman pressed a carved bone whistle into Yue's palm.
"Blow if the night tastes wrong," she whispered in dialect. "Wolves respect warnings."
Yue pocketed the whistle, thanked her with a bow.
Later, wrapped in blankets, she wrote by candle:
Three trials await at Ice-Lock.Northern riders include capital accents—possible infiltrators.Ying lives; debts to Shen still warm.Ridge bypass saved lives; trust patterns, not promises.
She folded the note, sealed it with wax impressed by the swan seal, and slipped it to Captain Han when he brought fresh tea. He would dispatch a hawk at next light—Zhao Shen's scouts would read her code.
Before sleep she touched both tokens at her throat: dragon, swan, wolf-fang pearl.
Three sigils, three paths, one road of snow.
Outside, the wind howled like a pack calling stragglers home.
She closed her eyes and answered silently:
I am not straggling. I am tracking.