Thirty-sixth day, frost on the ramparts
Bugles split the violet sky before the sun cleared the eastern peaks.
Shen stood in the lantern yard, cloak still carrying the river's cold, accepting sealed tubes from a mud-splashed courier.
Inside: ice-rimmed maps, a broken wax seal of the Northern Supply Office, and a single line in the Emperor's own vermilion ink:
"Hold the passes until the grain arrives—or until the rivers freeze you in place."
He crushed the parchment edge before discipline re-asserted itself.
Three days.
Maybe four.
Then winter would lock the roads like a vault.
The War Council That Wasn't
By sunrise officers crowded the stone hall—Yuan rubbing sleep from his eyes, scouts stamping slush, Lan Yue present as "senior archery advisor", a title invented on the spot.
Shen unrolled the map; the Frozen Jaw Pass glared like a wound—eleven li of cliff-road, one cart-width, no turn-space.
If the enemy seized it before imperial reinforcements, the garrison would starve by mid-winter.
"We march at dusk," Shen concluded.
"Reach the Jaw by tomorrow night, fortify before the blizzard lands."
No one spoke the corollary: if the storm arrived first, the road would become a grave of ice.
Private Orders, Public Eyes
Council dissolved into clanking chaos.
Shen caught Yue's sleeve as she turned.
Voice low:
"Requisition every climbing rope, every goat-hide tent.
And—" he hesitated, glanced at passing clerks, "—find me before march.
Alone."
The last word landed warm despite the frost between them.
She nodded, pulse already matching hoof-beats she had not yet heard.
The Armoury Alcove – Mid-day
She located him behind racks of pikes, lantern-shadow striping his face.
He held something wrapped in indigo silk—small, flat.
Without ceremony he unfolded it: a strip of softened calfskin, palm-length.
On it, ink still drying, he had sketched the Frozen Jaw—cliff contour, wind eddies, a tiny star marking a hidden crevasse ledge.
He spoke fast, soldier-brief:
"If the main column is pinned, this ledge gives archer vantage on the switch-back.
But it needs a climber who can shoot in gale-force dark."
Her grin was answer enough.
He flipped the calfskin—reverse side bore two characters:
"平安"
Peace/return.
Not an order—a wish.
Before she could speak he pressed the strip into her palm, folding her fingers over it like sealing a letter.
"Tie inside your bracer.
If—" He stopped, jaw clenched.
"When you come back, show it to me intact."
Voice rough, eyes darker than forge-smoke.
She felt the ink's residual warmth bleed into her skin.
The Second Promise
She tugged a leather cord from her pouch—the moon-pearl from Lantern Night, now knotted on a red silk thread.
Without asking she slipped it over his neck, tucking pearl beneath mail and quilted collar.
"An exchange," she whispered.
"Return it un-cracked, and I'll know the mountain let you pass."
His hand rose, closed over the pearl through layers of steel and wool—a heartbeat held in calcium and moonlight.
Neither moved until footsteps echoed; then they stepped apart, faces schooled, but his fist stayed against his chest as if guarding a second heart.
Dust to Ice – The March
Column filed out under a sky the colour of wet ash.
By twilight rain turned to sleet; by nightfall hooves cracked thin sheets of puddles.
Torches hissed, guttered, died—men rode blind between flurries.
Lan Yue rode scout van, bow wrapped in oiled silk, the calfskin strip itching against her wrist—not discomfort, reminder.
Behind her Shen commanded centre, Yuan rearguard; every clank of armour carried an echo: return intact.
Midnight – The Narrowing Path
Road narrowed to a shelf above a gorge; wind became a whetstone scraping skin.
She signalled halt—fresh claw-marks on ice, not wolf, iron-shod boot heel slipping.
Enemy scouts ahead, maybe hours, maybe minutes.
She dismounted, crept to the bend, counted four torches bobbing below the pass—too low for imperial colours.
Her breath crystallised; she nocked an arrow impregnated with fish-oil to keep it from freezing to the string.
First shot must silence the lookout before he could shout echo into the cliffs.
The Shot That Named the Wind
She braced knees on rock glazed like black glass, drew.
Wind keened, trying to snatch the shaft; she waited for the lull between gusts—heartbeat taught by Shen's steadying hand on a pillion ride.
Release.
Twang swallowed by storm; the arrow vanished into snow-haze.
A torch spun, fell, its owner crumpling soundless.
Three left.
She signalled back; imperial skirmishers fanned.
Somewhere below Shen would be reading the wind's sudden hush—he had learned her cadence.
The Skirmish in Silence
Imperial climbers scaled the cliff lip above the intruders; boulders dropped, muffled by snow.
Screams cut short; cliffs threw echoes back like broken blades.
Within breaths the path cleared—four bodies, four fewer mouths to report imperial movement.
She searched the lookout's satchel: crude map, identical to Shen's calfskin—but missing the hidden ledge.
Her pulse hammered relief; she tucked the strip deeper inside her cuff.
Blizzard Landfall
Snow thickened to white blindness.
Shen ordered ropes between riders; visibility dropped to the length of a sword.
They pressed on because stopping meant burial.
Yue's world narrowed to the green glow of the rope ahead and the calfskin strip burning cold against her pulse.
Once the wind slammed her sideways; only the rope and the memory of a pearl against a prince's collarbone kept her upright.
The Frozen Jaw – Dawn Under Ice
They reached the pass mouth as false dawn bled steel-grey.
Temperature had fallen so low metal stuck to skin; men spoke in clenched-teeth whispers.
Shen deployed pickets, sent engineers to hack ice from the gate mechanism.
Yue climbed the hidden ledge—fingers numb, breath ragged—and wedged herself into the crevasse vantage.
From there she could see the entire switch-back; if enemy crested the far ridge she could drop arrows like winter itself.
The Vigil
Hours passed in white stillness.
She flexed toes inside felt wrappings, recited bow-string counts, but mostly she pressed two fingers to the calfskin strip, feeling the ink characters:
Peace/return.
She whispered to the wind, to the cliff, to whatever spirit guarded archers foolish enough to fall in love:
"I intend to deliver this in person."
Wind answered by hurling ice crystals against her cheek—like the ghost of a hand once poised mid-air.
The Enemy Standard – A Black Swallow Tail
At midday movement stirred on the far slope—a column darker than storm, standards dyed black, the Wolf-head sigil.
Numbers too many for a skirmish, too few for siege; they aimed to slip through before imperial arrival.
She counted banners, noted catapults on sledges—if they gained the pass the garrison below would shatter.
She nocked, sent a warning shot downslope; the shaft punched snow beside the lead scout—imperial signal: we see you.
Chaos erupted below—shields raised, sledges turned, but the wind favoured her position; every arrow found voice.
The Retreat That Wasn't
Enemy tried to flank the cliff; her shafts forced them back.
They loosed crossbow bolts in arcs but gale tore them aside.
She grinned into the white—this was her element: wind, height, and a promise written in skin.
Yet ammunition dwindled; quiver held ten, then five, then two.
She saved the last for the standard bearer—drop the flag, drop their heart.
Draw, hold, release—black silk folded into snow, swallowed.
A cheer rose from imperial throats below; she heard Shen's voice cut through, rallying pikes to block the choke-point.
The Collapse
But the cliff itself had listened too long to winter.
A crack shuddered beneath her—ice sheath separating from stone.
She scrambled but the ledge tilted; calfskin strip flapped free, slapped icy rock.
For one heartbeat she hung—choice: cling and maybe die buried, or slide and maybe live exposed.
She thought of a pearl under armour, of cedar scent in rain, of hands that had carried her from fire.
Then she let go, sliding on her shield down the cliff-face in a cataract of snow.
The Catch
Halfway the rope team hauled; hands seized her cloak, yanked her onto the path.
She sprawled, gasping, snow in her mouth, but her right fist still clenched the calfskin—crumpled, smeared, yet intact.
Shen knelt, gauntlet brushing snow from her cheek, eyes wild.
"Intact?" he demanded.
She opened her fingers; ink bled but characters lived.
His shoulders sagged—relief raw enough to shame protocol.
Around them men pretended to scan the ridge, granting the moment armour of invisibility.
The Counter-Attack
Imperial sorties poured from hidden clefts; wolves became hunted.
By nightfall enemy remnants fled downslope, leaving sledges and shame.
The Frozen Jaw held—but barely; blizzard would close it by tomorrow.
Shen ordered retreat to the garrison before the pass sealed them in.
Exhausted, Yue mounted behind him on the black gelding—no pillion etiquette asked, none given.
His hand covered hers at his belt, pressing the calfskin strip flat between glove and mail.
They rode in silence while snow erased footprints—but could not erase ink, or pearl, or promise.
Night in the Garrison – A Room With One Lantern
Barracks overflowed; he yielded his tiny command chamber to wounded, took cot in the signal tower—stone walls, no door, but a hearth.
She found him there at watch change, carrying hot wine.
He stood coatless, mail open, the moon-pearl gleaming against collarbone sweat.
She held out the calfskin; he held out the pearl.
Both exchanged without words, but when fingers brushed he drew her inside, closed the warped door with his heel.
Firelight painted them gold and shaking.
The Unspoken Renewal
He pressed forehead to hers, hands on her shoulders—not embrace, anchor.
"We held," he whispered.
"You held," she corrected.
Ink smudged her thumb; he lifted it, kissed the stain—taste of snow and gall and promise.
No titles, no tomorrow, only the crackle of pine-log and the certainty that when the pass iced over they would still be breathing—together.
Outside, sentries stamped and cursed the cold; inside, two promises—one written on skin, one worn against heart—beat time to the same quiet drum:
Return intact.
Return intact.
Return.