The Bells of War
At dawn, the capital awoke not to peace but to bells — not celebratory, not solemn, but sharp and insistent. War bells. From the palace spires, from sect compounds, from the city's walls, their toll echoed like the heartbeat of a beast stirring from slumber.
The Empress had moved swiftly. Orders were carved into jade plaques and carried by swift riders: the armies of the empire were to march, the sects to lend their disciples, and assassins of the Black Pavilion to take flight.
The throne would not allow Hei Long's fire to spread unchecked.
The Watchtower
In the abandoned watchtower, shadows clung to broken stone, but inside the chamber, Hei Long and his women prepared.
Qingxue sharpened her blade against whetstone, each strike loud in the silence. Her eyes were fixed on the steel, but her heart pulsed with fire. "They'll send armies," she said flatly. "Let them. My sword is already thirsty."
