The palace bells did not toll for the Emperor.
They wheezed once, as if choked by their own duty, and then fell silent. Servants who had not slept in three days pressed their foreheads to frozen tiles, but no herald came to guide their grief. The Emperor — quiet scholar, reluctant ruler, man who once believed mercy could be a currency — died alone. Not on a battlefield. Not in the glare of ceremony. But in a fever bed, the taste of empire stale on his tongue, betrayed more by time than daggers.
In the corridors outside his chamber, Zhang's men replaced imperial guards before the incense finished burning.
By dusk, the throne room had already been prepared — banners lowered, silk re-dyed, the Regent's seal warmed and waiting. Zhang stood at the steps like a shadow rehearsing how to be a mountain.
The ministers bowed. Not because they believed, but because fear bends knees faster than reverence. A few old officials broke decorum, wept openly, begged the heavens for protest. They were escorted out like broken strings cut from a lute.
Outside the walls, the city did not mourn. It trembled.
Rumor is a bird that does not wait for invitation. By nightfall, the alleys spoke of Xia flags sighted along the eastern marshes, of drums echoing from beyond Shanning Pass, of Zhang purging court registers even as the border cracked like thin ice under a heavy foot. Bread doubled in price before lanterns were lit; children learned to sleep without asking questions.
And somewhere far south, Ziyan heard the news like a blade sliding into its sheath — quiet, final, meant for war not peace.
She stood at the ridge above Yong'an, breath clouded, cloak stiff with cold and blood that was not all hers. Han watched her face and did not speak. Wei polished his spear without noticing his own trembling. Li Qiang knelt sharpening his sword as if truth could be honed. Shuye fed the fire in even handfuls, as though balance still mattered. Feiyan sat beside Ziyan, unblinking, hand resting on the hilt that had already chosen its killing.
"The Emperor is gone," Li Qiang said at last. "There will be no last orders. No summons. No justice from the throne."
"He died watching his kingdom slip from him," Wei murmured. "I pity him."
"No." Ziyan's voice held iron. "Pity is for those who tried."
The wind howled. A temple bell in Yong'an cracked under frost, the sound too much like a soul breaking.
"Zhang stands on ashes," she said. "He thinks them soil." Her fingers dug into the hilt at her belt. "He believes no one will remember what the empire was meant to be."
"And what is it meant to be?" Shuye asked softly.
"Not a cage," Ziyan answered. "Not a ledger of fear. Not a throne looted from a dying man's breath."
Feiyan's gaze flickered sideways. "And who will teach him?"
The road below was black with troops moving toward the capital — Han's riders, lords' pledges, farmers with rusted blades and griefs sharpened by hunger. A river of desperation, but also of choice. Ziyan let the sight fill her, like a deep breath before the plunge.
"I will," she said.
Not softly. Not as a wish. As judgment.
Feiyan's lips curved, nothing gentle. "Good. I was beginning to tire of running."
"Running kept us alive," Wei muttered.
"And fighting will make us live," Ziyan replied.
Torches flared below as Han gave orders. Scouts returned reporting Xia's vanguard eight days from Qi's heart, burning towns as they came. One banner bore the Emperor's stolen seal; another bore Zhang's wolf sigil. Treason and invasion marched as allies.
"Two enemies," Han said. "Two storms. One too many."
"Storms can drown each other," Ziyan said. "If wind is cut right."
She lifted the Emperor's last letter — fragile silk, words faded. Hold what can be held. Ziyan closed it in her fist.
"No," she whispered. "Take what must be taken."
She thought of her father, walking without regret toward a blade. She thought of Lian'er's small hairpin resting near her heart. Of the potter's kiln in Nan Shu. Of the ashes of Ye Cheng.
And of the man in the palace who believed crowns grew from fear like mold from damp walls.
Fire lit her eyes. "I will not kneel again. Not to duty that chokes. Not to thrones that forget. Not to traitors who call themselves saviors."
None spoke. The night waited.
"This is the last time I am betrayed," she said — to the snow, to the sky, to the blood on her boots and the road in her veins. "From this hour, I am no one's hunted. I am the storm they will fear."
Feiyan rose first. "Then let us sharpen it."
Wei stood. "I fought for a nation. I will fight now for you."
Li Qiang bowed — not court-polished, but soldier-true. "I am your sword. Until peace or pyre."
Shuye grinned, fierce and tired. "Empire of ashes, hm? Let us build something that does not burn."
Han nodded once. "Send word. The regent dreams of being emperor. Let him wake to rebellion."
"Not rebellion." Ziyan looked north, where the horizon trembled with enemy fire. "Restoration."
The wind lifted her hair like a banner. Blue silk at her wrist shimmered in moonlight — Feiyan's knot, oath and blade alike. The road stretched before her, no longer exile but claim. Xia marched. Zhang schemed. The Emperor was soil now.
But Ziyan was breath. Was blade. Was the last daughter of roofs turned to smoke and walls turned to dust — and the first queen of a country not yet born.
"Tomorrow," she said, voice low as a vow and vast as winter, "we ride toward the capital."
"And Xia?" Han asked.
"We will meet them in the ruins Zhang calls his palace."
"And what name will you take when you stand there?" Wei asked, half jest, half prayer.
Ziyan looked at the horizon, where fires smoldered like sleeping gods.
"The name I earn," she answered.
The night did not bless them. It tested their resolve and found it steel.
When dawn came, the frost cracked like a verdict — and the army began to march.