Early Spring, twenty-third day on the road
The column wound into the red hills, where soil the colour of rust drank rain like thirst itself.
Terraces carved into the slopes held last year's stubble; farmers leaned on hoes, eyes shadowed beneath straw hats.
They did not wave.
Lan Yue felt the silence press against her temples—a hush older than courtesy, the kind that gathers where graves lie shallow.
First Sight of the Hold
Red-Clay rose from a crag like a scab on stone.
Its walls were mortared with local earth, so the whole fortress seemed bled from the mountain.
Watchtowers carried banners of the imperial sun, yet beneath them flapped a second standard—a black boar on russet, house sigil of Magistrate Wei, hereditary warden.
Shen studied the twin flags, lips thin.
"A banner too many," he murmured.
Yue checked her quiver: thirty arrows, each head painted white for easy recovery—a cadet's thrift, soon to matter.
The Welcome
Wei's lieutenant, Captain Hong, met them beyond the gate with a smile polished by years of banquets.
Arms wide, he proclaimed the granaries open, the garrison loyal, the magistrate honoured by royal visit.
Yet his men stood three-deep along the walls—crossbows cranked, pikes grounded, not sloped at ease.
Hong ushered the royal party into the courtyard where tables sagged under roasted kid, honeyed yams, and wine from southern valleys.
Musicians struck lutes; girls scattered chrysanthemum petals.
Yuan leaned toward Yue, voice low.
"Feast before famine.
Remember the taste of Sweet-Locust."
She nodded, but took the proffered cup—a guest must drink or insult, and insult buys no truths.
Magistrate Wei Appears
He arrived late, robe of fox-lined silk, belly prosperous, eyes quick as striking snakes.
He toasted Shen as "the Crown's own shadow" and Yuan as "the brave cub who shares my table."
To Yue he offered a necklace of coral beads.
"For the archer whose arrows sing."
She bowed, accepted, felt the beads clack like knucklebones.
Wei's fingers lingered on her wrist—warm, damp, possessive.
She met his gaze without blinking; something flickered there—amusement, perhaps warning—then he turned to summon dancers.
Dinner Conversation
Between courses Shen spoke of quotas, of imperial need, of grain ledgers awaiting verification.
Wei waved a goose-bone.
"All in good time, Highness.
Tonight we celebrate spring; tomorrow we count seeds."
He clapped; servants rolled out a lacquered chest.
Inside lay five hundred taels of silver, tribute for the throne.
"A token," Wei purred.
"Proof of loyalty."
Shen's smile could have cut glass.
"Loyalty is measured in grain, not silver.
We shall inspect stores at dawn."
Wei's eyelids drooped, hooded.
"Of course.
Dawn reveals all."
Night Assignments
Camp was pitched inside the lower bailey—stone walls on three sides, cliff on the fourth.
Shen posted double sentries, ordered horses saddled overnight.
Yuan slipped into the shadows to count arrow slits, well depths, latrine routes—escape lines.
Yue climbed the inner battlement under pretext of "fresh air," studied the gate mechanisms: wooden portcullis, iron teeth, counterweights of green bronze.
She noted the winch room—one guard, dozing, lantern low.
Far below, torches moved along terraces where farmers still laboured by night—planting, or burying?
The wind carried a sour smell: millet mash left to rot, unmistakable to any nose raised near storehouses.
Midnight – The Stables
She found Yuan brushing his mare, whispering calming nonsense.
He spoke without turning.
"Granary doors are banded with new bronze.
Hinges greased last week.
Smells of fresh grain inside, but labourers whisper 'empty echo' when sacks drop."
He drew a circle in straw with his boot.
"Also—Wei's personal guard numbers three hundred, not the hundred reported.
Barracks overflow; men sleep in shifts."
She told him of the winch room, of the farmer's night-work.
They agreed: if proof hid within walls, it must be sought beneath, where torchlight never reached.
Before Dawn – The Sewer Tunnel
Red-Clay's cliff face cracked into natural caves.
Generations had enlarged them for drainage.
Yue and Yuan lowered themselves through a latrine chute, dropped into a runnel of ankle-deep water.
Torches would betray; they moved by touch.
Rats squealed, fat as puppies.
The tunnel sloped toward the cliff heart—where granaries were said to be carved.
They smelled it before seeing: sweetness edged with vinegar, grain sweating in secret.
The Hidden Cavern
They emerged onto a rock shelf overlooking a vault lit by a single hanging lamp.
Below, sacks piled mountain-high, but each bore Wolf-head brands identical to the river barges.
Labourers in padded grey worked silently, sewing new imperial labels over old marks—grain destined for 'relief' that would never reach imperial troops.
Beside the sacks stood chests of weapons: northern axes, recurve bows, bundles of ash-shafted arrows.
A ledger lay open on a crate; Yuan copied columns by flickering light.
Yue counted forty guards, helmets stacked, dice silent—discipline unusual for local militia.
The Alarm
A pebble skittered—Yuan's heel on moss.
A guard looked up, shouted.
Torches flared.
Yue loosed two arrows; lamps shattered, darkness swallowed vision.
Steel rang; echoes multiplied until the cavern seemed filled with phantoms.
They fought retreat—back-to-back along the shelf, arrows and blade.
Guards pressed; Yuan took a cut across the ribs, shallow but bloody.
Yue used her last shaft to drop a brazier onto sacks—flames licked, grain hissed, smoke rose sweet and acrid.
In chaos they leapt into the runnel, sloshed uphill, lungs burning.
Escape and Exposure
They burst from a drainage grate inside the horse pen, startling mounts.
Sentries yelled; horns blared.
Dawn's first grey bled over battlements.
Shen appeared at the gallop, leading spare horses.
"Mount!
The gate!" he shouted.
They swung up; hooves pounded.
Wei's men poured from barracks half-dressed, crossbows winding.
Arrows hissed; one struck Yue's saddle skirt, another nicked Yuan's rein.
They thundered across the yard.
Shen hurled a fire-pot into the winch room; flames licked ropes, counterweights crashed, portcullis jammed half-lowered—a gap of one horse.
They bent low, shot through as iron teeth scraped helms.
Outside the Walls
They plunged down terraces, farmers scattering.
A squad of thirty pursued; Shen split the party—half to delay, half to carry proof.
Yue rode rear guard, guiding her mare along terrace walls, loosing back-shot arrows until bowstring numbed her fingers.
At the red cliff bend Yuan cut a rope tethering an irrigation sluice; a flood of muddy water swept the path, slowing pursuit.
They vanished into morning mist, hearts hammering against ribs like caged hawks.
Mid-day Camp – Willow Grove
They halted to breathe, to bind wounds.
Yuan's blood soaked his shirt; Yue cleaned it with rice wine, stitched the slice while he bit on a stick, silent.
Shen spread Yuan's copied pages: inventory of 12,000 sacks, weapon counts, delivery routes through Wolf passes, and Wei's seal beside Magistrate Pei's signature from Sweet-Locust—proof of a chain, not lone greed.
Shen's face was stone, but his hands trembled.
"We cannot merely report.
We must stop the next shipment or the border opens hungry."
He looked at the sky, calculating distances.
"Three days north lies Border-Store Fort, last depot before the frontier.
If Wei warns them, grain vanishes like dew.
We ride within the hour."
Personal Moment
Yue sat apart, restringing her bow.
Her fingers smelled of smoke, of Yuan's blood, of mouldy imperial grain.
She felt the coral necklace Wei had given her; she snapped it, let beads fall into the grass—tiny red stones swallowed by earth.
From her pouch she took the iron swan charm, still blackened, still warm from her skin.
She pressed it against her lips once, a silent vow, then tucked it back.
When she stood, the grove smelled of spring sap and distant rain.
Ahead lay the final granary, the frontier, and the promise that every stolen sack would be weighed in steel if words failed.
She swung into saddle, took position beside the two princes—one pale from blood-loss, one burning with cold fury—and together they turned their horses north, leaving Red-Clay Hold to smoulder behind them like a wound cauterised but far from healed.