Zhiyuan was not a city. It was a sentence.
Its sky hung low and lifeless, heavy with soot, memory, and the stench of burnt oaths. Wind did not whistle through its narrow courts; it obeyed. There was no color, only commands etched into stone, bone, and breath.
The Court of Dazhun reflected this silence. A hall of cold silver and older rituals, where power wore no face but weighed down every breath. Robes shimmered with qi-suppressant thread. Officials knelt in ordered silence. Their identities were irrelevant. Only function mattered. Here, power did not speak. It waited.
And then it listened.
A courier in blood-red silk, its dye drawn from the Thirteen Lakes, approached the dais and bowed to the marble. He did not speak at first. That alone said enough.
The Emperor's voice, when it came, was quieter than snow on stone. "Report."
"Your Majesty," the courier said, forehead still pressed low. "Our spy networks in the Free Cities League have gone silent. Entire cells. Not one, but all. Even the shadow-clerks in smaller towns. We attempted missives. They do not return. It's as if our messengers vanished."
A ripple moved through the ranks, more reaction than anyone dared speak aloud. A whole lattice of intelligence, severed.
The Empress Dowager turned her head, not veiled in mourning today but in tension. "Impossible. The Whisper Chain is bound to blood and vow."
Marshal Eltan stepped forward, face carved from callus and grim habit. "Which means the severing was deliberate. Not accident. They weren't hunted. They were found."
The Emperor's gaze did not shift. "And the legions?"
Eltan raised his head. "Twenty legions have marched north. Within two to three months, they'll reach the Landbridge and sweep east, through the Blackpine Descent and into the Dark Elves' mountain holds. The Virak'tai have not yet responded to our warnings. If they do not surrender, we cleanse their warrens."
The court stilled. No one said the truth aloud: The Virak'tai do not surrender.
Eltan continued. "The Sturmwulf Clans may resist, but we have prepared." His voice sharpened. "Two legions from the High Elves, those who still honor the Pact of Bloodline Unity, have volunteered to join the march. They heard of our plan to pass through Virak'tai lands and offered their support with unusual eagerness."
A nod from the Empress Dowager. She knew why. Old rivalries. Old betrayals. Let the Highborn carry that grudge forward, blades first.
"Five legions now sail for Tidescar and the eastern seaboard. Their mission is not conquest, but pressure. They will pin down the Free Cities' coastal defense, force their fleets into delay. While this happens, the northern front will punch through the Kaldoran Isthmus and link with the loyalist Zhong enclaves. Five more legions await us there. Loyal cities with ancient debts."
He paused. "Total strength, once combined: twenty-seven legions. Not counting auxiliaries or cult-binders."
The Emperor turned toward the southern wind. "And the Gale Nation?"
The Empress Dowager stiffened. "They still believe they're safe behind the desert."
The Emperor did not blink. "Send word to the Southern Kingdoms. The slave legions. Activate the contract. They will march from their western holdings and cross the desert at Khartol's Dagger. Strike the Gale border directly."
"The sand will burn their feet," the Dowager said softly. "They'll lose a third of their number."
"And earn what they were paid for," the Emperor replied. "Remind them. Payment came before loyalty. Obedience was bought. It will be expected."
Far beneath the chamber's stillness, a tension gathered.
Then came another voice, aged, brittle, but impossible to ignore.
Elder Seer Tanli approached the throne. Her robes clung like moonlight over frostbitten skin. Her voice wavered, but it did not falter.
"You've accounted for legions, terrain, ports, and coin," she said. "But not for the wind that carries names. You've not accounted for Altan."
The court did not gasp. It tightened.
Eltan's lip curled. "The Gale Lord? He's no empire."
"No," Tanli said. "He's worse. He's a change in pattern. He doesn't command. He inspires. His Gale Army moves like spirit, not steel. Wind-step formations. Intent-layered combat. Their vanguard appears before we even finish drawing breath."
Eltan scoffed. "Wind dies to iron."
Tanli's gaze dimmed. "Iron can't catch what doesn't walk the ground."
The Empress Dowager moved a single step forward. "Then we will scorch the sky. Burn his banners. Pulverize every name he makes."
The Emperor raised one hand. Everything froze.
"No," he said. "We won't burn."
He looked toward the horizon, though no windows lay open.
"We'll erase. Make them forget they ever believed in him."
No one argued.
Far to the west, in the shipyards of Yanping, black-hulled warships were being birthed by the hammer and soul-binding chant. Storm-priests whispered into spiritual cores. Cult-binders etched symbols into the holds, binding rage to steel. Zhong exiles paraded their bloodlines again, dreaming of restoration.
They did not see the truth.
They did not see the Emperor's dragon seal now engraved above their own.
They did not see the new generation kneeling to a different throne.
They did not see the banners, once loyal to Zhong, now rewritten in silence.
From the high towers of Zhiyuan, the Emperor looked north. And then south.
He did not smile.
He didn't need to.
The war had already begun.
And no one, not Altan, not the Virak'tai, not the Southern Gale, had seen it coming.