The snow hadn't stopped falling.
By the time I reached the small copse of pines two ridges over, Bao's body was already hidden under a thin, uneven sheet of white. No cairn. No marker. In this world, that was the only mercy — the wind and snow erased you faster than grief could take root.
I sat by the base of a pine, unslinging my pack. My gloves were stiff with dried blood, the smell faint under the resin of the tree.
I took out the little things first. A flask of clear liquor. A thin strip of salted fish. My whetstone. The motions were familiar, deliberate — sharpening my blade, chewing slowly, drinking only enough to wet my throat. Each movement gave me time to think, to strip away the noise of the last hour.
The ambush had drawn out at least four factions. The Iron Hand. The wolfskin mercenaries from the Northern Tribes. The nameless crossbowmen — likely freelance killers from the Black Sand Guild. And someone else, unseen but precise enough to trigger the clash without being caught.
That last one was dangerous.
Because that last one thought like me.
I leaned my head back against the pine and closed my eyes, tracing the shape of the game in my mind.
The rumor I had planted through Bao had worked. The bait — a false story of a rare jade shipment passing through the snow road — had reached exactly the right ears. The factions had collided. Blood had spilled. Distrust had seeded itself between them.
The only problem was the hand that had fired the first bolt. That wasn't mine. Which meant someone else had been moving pieces on the same board.
I hate rivals.
* * * * * * * * *
By morning, I was back in the market quarter of Longhe Town.
It was a grey little place, a cluster of wood and stone buildings huddled in the lee of a frozen river. Smoke from a dozen hearths curled into the low sky, carrying the scent of pork fat and wet ash.
I kept my hood up as I crossed the muddy street to the back room of the Broken Cup tavern. The shutters were drawn tight, the air inside thick with the smell of cheap spirits and unwashed bodies.
Four men sat at the round table.
Three I recognized — all low-ranking brokers for the Iron Hand School. The fourth was new. Tall, lean, with a hawk's nose and eyes like polished flint. His hair was bound in a warrior's knot, but his hands were soft, clean. A man who handled ink more often than steel.
"You're late," said one of the brokers, a scarred man named Liu Han.
I pulled my gloves off and sat down without answering. The new man studied me in silence, his gaze searching.
Liu Han cleared his throat. "Your friend — the one who brought word about the jade caravan — he's dead."
"I know," I said.
The new man spoke for the first time. His voice was low, deliberate. "A pity. I heard he was loyal."
I looked at him. "Loyal men die fastest. They're predictable."
A faint smile touched his lips. "Practical. I like that."
He didn't introduce himself, which told me two things — he thought his presence was important enough to be known without a name, and he wanted me curious.
I didn't ask. Let him stew in his own importance.
Instead, I reached into my coat and tossed a small bundle onto the table. It landed with a soft thud — three iron tokens stamped with the mark of the Northern Tribes' wolfskins.
Liu Han frowned. "Where did you—?"
"Taken from the dead at the snow road," I said. "Proof that the Tribes were involved. You can use that however you want."
The new man picked up one of the tokens, turning it between his fingers. "And what do you want in return?"
"Information. The archer who fired the first bolt. The one who turned the wolfskins and your men on each other."
The smile returned, sharper this time. "Ah. So you noticed."
"I notice everything that tries to kill me," I said.
His gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat longer than was polite. Then he set the token down and leaned back. "Perhaps we can help each other."
I said nothing.
"In two nights," he continued, "a meeting will be held in the old tea warehouse by the south docks. Representatives from three factions will attend. They will discuss what happened at the snow road… and what to do about it."
He reached into his sleeve and slid a thin slip of parchment across the table. No names. No signatures. Just a time, a place, and a single symbol — a black crescent over crossed arrows.
The Black Sand Guild.
I met his gaze again. "You want me to attend?"
"I want you to listen," he said. "And perhaps… move another piece on the board."
I tucked the parchment away. "We'll see."
* * * * * * * * *
That night, back in the small attic I rented above a candlemaker's shop, I lit a single tallow lamp and spread my notes on the floor.
A crude map of the snow road, with marks for where each faction had been sighted.
A list of goods moving through Longhe in the next two weeks.
Three names — minor lieutenants in the Iron Hand, one of whom was already dead.
I added a fourth — Bao's name. Then I drew a line through it.
The flame flickered as the wind pressed against the shutters. I poured myself a measure of cheap wine and drank slowly, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue.
Bao's death had bought me breathing room. No one would connect me to the false jade rumor now. But it had also cost me a runner I could trust — or at least one I knew how to read.
In my first life, I would have cursed fate. Raged at the unfairness.
In this life, I had learned the truth: The board cares nothing for sentiment.
Only moves.
* * * * * * * * *
Two nights later, the river was frozen glass beneath the black sky.
Longhe Town slept under a crust of frost, the alleys empty except for the occasional drunk swaying his way home. I moved through the narrow lanes with my hood low, boots silent on the packed snow. The south docks were quiet — too quiet. Even the stray dogs were gone.
The tea warehouse stood like a shadow at the edge of the river, its bulk blocking the wind. Its once-bright paint had peeled away in long curls, leaving the wood beneath grey and splintered. No light leaked from its shuttered windows, but the faintest hum of voices drifted out into the cold.
I circled once, counting. Two guards at the main doors, both armed with short sabers and heavy coats. One lookout on the roof. At least one man inside with a crossbow — I could tell from the way the voices paused whenever a floorboard creaked.
There would be more I couldn't see. There always were.
* * * * * * * * *
Getting in was easy enough.
The warehouse shared a back wall with a row of abandoned storage sheds, their roofs sagging under the weight of snow. I climbed the lowest one, careful not to disturb the icicles hanging from the eaves, then crossed to the warehouse roof. The tiles were slick, but my fingers found their holds.
A narrow gap in the roofline was my way in — a vent no bigger than my forearm, meant to let steam out when the place had processed fresh leaves. I eased it open and slid inside, lowering myself onto the narrow beam above the main floor.
The meeting had already begun.
* * * * * * * * *
A long table stood at the center of the warehouse, its surface littered with rolled maps, inkpots, and half-empty cups. Three groups sat facing one another like predators forced to share a kill.
On the left, the Iron Hand School — their leader a broad man with the flattened nose of an old brawler, rings glittering on every finger. His two lieutenants leaned forward, hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
On the right, the wolfskin mercenaries from the Northern Tribes — heavy coats trimmed with fur, the smell of smoke and horse clinging to them. Their chieftain's eyes were pale and hard, his beard beaded with frost.
At the far end, under the flicker of a single oil lamp, sat two figures cloaked in black. The crossed-arrow emblem of the Black Sand Guild was stitched into their sleeves in dark thread. They spoke little, but every time they did, the other two factions listened.
And in the shadows near the back wall, watching them all, was the hawk-nosed man from the tavern.
So. He'd lied when he said he only wanted me to listen.
* * * * * * * * *
"…a coordinated attack," the Iron Hand leader was saying, his voice low but carrying. "We know your men were there. We found their bodies."
The wolfskin chieftain bared his teeth. "And we found yours. We came for jade. You came for jade. Someone lied to us both."
The Black Sand man tilted his head. "Perhaps that was the point. To make you tear each other apart."
No one spoke for a long moment.
Perfect.
* * * * * * * * *
I needed two things here: confirmation of who fired the first bolt, and an opening to push the factions further apart.
The first came quickly. One of the wolfskin lieutenants slammed a fist on the table. "It was the same archer who killed our scouts last winter! Black fletching, black bow. He was no friend to either of us."
The Iron Hand leader frowned. "That archer was sighted in the east two weeks ago."
The Black Sand man's lips curved into a thin smile. "Two weeks… or two hours. Men like that move quickly. And they move for coin."
I filed the detail away. Black bow. Black fletching. Likely a free agent, maybe tied to neither faction — or both.
The second part — planting the seed — required precision.
* * * * * * * * *
I reached into my coat and drew out the small pouch I'd prepared. Inside were two iron wolfskin tokens — identical to the ones I'd given Liu Han in the tavern — and a strip of cloth dyed in the Iron Hand's red-and-gold pattern.
I let them drop silently onto the floor behind a stack of crates near the wolfskins' side of the table. Not close enough to be obvious, but close enough that someone searching the place later would find them.
Evidence. False, but convincing.
When the time came, either faction could "discover" that their rivals had planted spies here. And when they did, trust would snap like a frozen branch.
* * * * * * * * *
The discussion dragged on. Accusations. Denials. Thinly veiled threats.
And then, the hawk-nosed man spoke. "Perhaps," he said, "it is not about jade at all. Perhaps someone here… seeks to control the road itself. To decide who may pass, and who may not."
The Iron Hand leader narrowed his eyes. "And who would that be?"
The hawk-nosed man smiled. "The one who started the bloodshed."
My grip tightened on the beam. He was baiting them — but not toward me. Toward the archer. Which meant he didn't know it was my rumor that had set all this in motion. Good.
* * * * * * * * *
The meeting ended without bloodshed, but not without promises of it.
The factions filed out in pairs, their guards falling in around them. The Black Sand Guild left first, their footsteps silent on the packed snow. The wolfskins followed, their breath steaming in the cold. The Iron Hand brought up the rear, muttering to one another in low, sharp tones.
The hawk-nosed man lingered until last. When he finally stepped outside, he glanced back — not toward the table, but toward the shadows near the roof.
Toward me.
Our eyes met for a heartbeat. Then he smiled faintly and walked away.
* * * * * * * * *
I waited until the last echo of boots faded, then dropped silently to the floor.
The table still smelled of ink and oil. I rolled up two of the maps — one showing caravan routes, the other a list of toll stations along the snow road — and tucked them into my coat.
By the time the first guard came back to check the place, I was already gone, my boots leaving no mark in the snow.
* * * * * * * * *
Back in my attic room, I laid the maps beside my notes and lit a fresh lamp.
The board was shifting. The factions were watching each other now, their attention turned inward. The black-fletched archer was still at large, his allegiance unknown. The hawk-nosed man was a wild card, dangerous and curious.
And me?
I was exactly where I needed to be — unseen, unheard, moving pieces that didn't even know they were in my hand.
Bao's death was already fading in their minds, just another casualty in a world that never stopped hungering for more.
But in mine, it was a line drawn in the snow. A reminder of why I could never again play this game like I had in my first life.