The embers had spread faster than I expected.
Barely a week after Zhang Hui limped back into his sect with my leash coiled around his throat, the murim whispered of fire and steel at each other's throats.
Crimson Flame cried that Iron Hand had burned their villages, their banners found in the ash. Iron Hand screamed back that Crimson Flame's fires had consumed fields they swore to protect. Neither side bent. Both sides sharpened.
By the third night, smoke rose from three valleys. By the fourth, both sects had pulled their disciples to the borderlands. By the fifth, blood already watered the soil.
All from one lie whispered into flame.
I felt the storm stirring — and it thrilled me as much as it terrified me.
* * * * * * * * *
Silent Reed summoned us at dawn.
We gathered in the safehold's inner hall, shadows long across the cracked stone. Reed stood at the head, arms folded, the black lotus sigil faintly visible at his sleeve. His expression was unreadable, carved from the same stone that lined the walls.
"The storm gathers," he said simply. "Your leash burns hotter than intended."
The words pricked, though his voice carried no accusation.
"You will go to the borderlands. Observe. Record. Do not interfere." His gaze swept us, sharp as knives. "Lotus must know the shape of the storm. We must not feed it."
I bowed my head, hiding the curl of my lips. Do not feed it? Too late. The storm had already tasted blood. And storms never stop once fed.
* * * * * * * * *
The journey to the border was three days of silence and ash.
We passed villages blackened into skeletons, their wells still steaming. Smoke curled from ruins like incense at a funeral pyre. The air tasted of iron and soot, heavy enough to choke.
Wei Lan breathed it in with something close to delight. "Mmm. Fire leaves such clean bones. Not like poison. Poison leaves rot."
Qiao Han spat into the dirt. "Rot or ash, it's the same. Dead is dead." But his eyes lingered on the blackened corpses, and I saw his grip tighten on his saber. He longed to fight, to bleed, to prove his edge sharper than flame.
Shen Yu, as ever, scribbled furiously, his brush scratching notes about every ruin. His face was pale, his fingers trembling. Yet he wrote, because he had to. Because his leash demanded it.
I walked at their head, silent, watching, calculating. Every ruin whispered confirmation: the lie was working. Iron Hand and Crimson Flame were already at each other's throats.
But confirmation brought another truth — this was bigger than my leash. Lies might start wars, but wars grew their own teeth.
* * * * * * * * *
We reached the border on the third night.
The valley stretched wide, mountains curving like jagged jaws around it. Fires blazed at opposite ends: crimson banners on one side, black iron on the other. Shouts carried on the wind. Steel clashed, sparks flew, and screams cut through the night.
We crouched low in the brush, hidden by shadow. From here, we saw everything.
Crimson Flame disciples surged like wildfire, their torches sweeping arcs that left burning trails across the ground. Iron Hand warriors met them with shields and spears, their formation tight, unyielding, a wall of steel against waves of fire.
The clash was brutal. Fire seared flesh; steel split skulls. The valley filled with the stench of burning hair and blood.
Wei Lan's eyes glittered. "If I had one vial…" she whispered. "One vial, and both sides would drown in their own bile."
"Stay your hand," I said. "We observe."
Qiao Han growled low in his throat. "Observe? While men bleed like this? What use is watching if not to strike?"
"To learn," I said. "Storms reveal their shape to those who watch from shelter. Strike now, and we are swept into it."
He bared his teeth but said no more.
Shen Yu's brush scratched so fast the parchment tore. His lips moved soundlessly, repeating names, banners, techniques. He was terrified, yes — but he was also recording history as it was forged.
* * * * * * * * *
The battle swayed back and forth.
A Crimson Flame disciple hurled a torch into Iron Hand's ranks, fire latching onto a man's tunic. He screamed, rolling on the ground as his comrades dragged him out. Their formation faltered, and Crimson Flame surged through the gap like wolves through a broken fence.
But Iron Hand responded swiftly. A captain barked orders, and chains uncoiled from their ranks — weighted, spiked, snaring torches mid-swing. With brutal precision, they yanked the firebrands from their enemies' hands, dragging men into steel's embrace.
Flame and iron. Chaos and order.
And between them, ash.
* * * * * * * * *
My wolves shifted restlessly.
Wei Lan muttered, "So much blood wasted."
Qiao Han gripped his saber until his knuckles whitened.
Shen Yu's ink smeared with sweat dripping onto his page.
I watched, and in my mind the web stretched wider.
Iron Hand would never forgive these burns. Crimson Flame would never forgive these chains. The storm had begun, and it would not stop until both sides were drowned.
And yet…
Something in me stirred uneasily. I had sparked this fire, but it now burned on its own, devouring faster than I predicted. Webs catch flies, yes — but webs burn when fire reaches them.
* * * * * * * * *
As the moon rose high, the clash slowed. Both sides had lost too many, their banners scorched, their men staggering. The valley stank of death.
Crimson Flame fell back, dragging wounded with them, torches dim. Iron Hand stood grim and bloodied, their shields blackened, their formation intact but weary.
The wolves shifted, eager to follow, to chase, to kill.
I raised a hand. "No."
Wei Lan hissed, "Why let them crawl away?"
Qiao Han snarled, "A clean strike now, and we break them both."
Shen Yu's eyes flicked between us, terror rising.
"Because," I said softly, "we are not here to kill. We are here to learn. To weave. To let the storm grow teeth until it devours itself."
The words settled them, though unease lingered.
But inside me, a truth gnawed: storms never stop at the borders we draw.
* * * * * * * * *
We pulled back from the valley, retreating into the forest's shadow. My ribs ached from crouching, my legs burned from the climb, but my body held. Weak still, fragile still, but stronger than before. Endurance had become another thread in my web.
When we finally rested, Wei Lan curled beside her gourd, whispering about new poisons. Qiao Han polished his saber with restless fury, muttering of wasted chances. Shen Yu's hand cramped, ink-stained, yet still scribbled every detail.
And I sat apart, staring at the faint glow of fire still rising from the valley.
One ember. One lie. That was all it had taken.
But embers become infernos. And infernos do not ask permission before spreading.
* * * * * * * * *
The forest was never quiet after war.
Though the valley lay behind us, the trees carried whispers: dying men groaning, crows circling, the crackle of embers drifting on the wind. Every step we took crunched against ash-laden soil.
Wei Lan sniffed the air like a wolf, lips curved. "Still burning. I could almost drink it."
Qiao Han muttered curses, dragging his saber against bark to keep it sharp. Shen Yu stumbled behind, arms heavy with scrolls, his ink-smudged fingers trembling.
I led them deeper into the woods, away from firelight. Our orders were to observe, not interfere. Reed's words echoed in my mind, sharp as blades: Do not feed the storm.
But storms do not ask before they spread.
* * * * * * * * *
The discovery came swift and sudden.
A whistle split the night. Chains hissed.
In an instant, steel coiled around Qiao Han's saber arm, jerking it back. He roared, straining, but the iron links tightened, biting into his scarred flesh.
Shadows dropped from the branches above — Iron Hand scouts, black armor glinting faintly, chains looping like serpents. There were five of them, moving with cold precision.
One stepped forward, his chain still taut on Qiao Han's arm. His face was hard, carved by discipline, eyes flat as stone.
"Lotus," he said flatly. Not a question. A statement.
Shen Yu nearly dropped his brush. Wei Lan's hand drifted toward her gourd, but I raised mine, stilling her.
"Yes," I said simply. "Lotus."
* * * * * * * * *
The scout's eyes narrowed. "You slink like rats in shadows while fire and steel bleed honest. Why are you here?"
His chain twitched, jerking Qiao Han's arm painfully. Blood beaded where links bit skin.
Qiao Han growled, struggling. "Release me, pig of iron, before I—"
"Silence," I cut him off, my voice sharp. He froze, teeth bared, but obeyed.
The scout's gaze shifted to me. He expected fear. He expected groveling. Instead, I met his eyes with calm, steady, deliberate.
"We are here because Crimson Flame moved first," I said evenly. "Our orders were to confirm it."
A flicker crossed his face. Suspicion, but also hunger. Iron Hand wanted to believe. They wanted confirmation that Crimson Flame was aggressor.
Now came the knife's edge.
* * * * * * * * *
I turned slightly. "Shen Yu."
The scribe startled, quill nearly slipping from his fingers. "Y-yes, Leader?"
"Show them the record."
His eyes widened, panic flooding them. He hadn't written such a record. But the leash tightened — and he knew it. His hand fumbled through scrolls, pulling one half-written, half-blank, his brush trembling.
I kept my voice calm, commanding. "Ink it. Now. As you saw. Crimson Flame torches, burning Iron Hand banners into the earth."
Shen Yu's breath came quick, shallow. His hand shook, but the brush moved. In frantic strokes, he scrawled false witness: banners blackened, torches hurled, Crimson Flame's cry of fire.
The scouts leaned closer, eyes sharp. The leader snatched the parchment when Shen Yu finished, scanning it.
He read slowly, lips moving around words written only moments ago. His eyes flicked between us and the ink. The parchment still glistened wet.
"Your scribe's hand trembles," he said.
Shen Yu blanched. Wei Lan smirked. Qiao Han strained against the chains, lips curled in a snarl.
I stepped closer, forcing the scout to meet my gaze.
"He trembles," I said softly, "because he writes while fire eats men alive. You call that weakness? I call it truth. The pen shakes because the world shakes."
For a long moment, the scout stared at me. His chain twitched, tightening on Qiao Han's arm. My wolves waited, breath held.
Then the scout's lips curled. Not a smile — but something close.
"Perhaps."
He released the chain. Qiao Han ripped free, snarling, but I cut him with a glance before he could lunge.
The scout rolled the parchment and tucked it into his armor. "If Crimson Flame indeed struck first, then fire will meet iron in kind. You shadows may crawl away now. But if you lie…"
His eyes narrowed. "Iron breaks all chains. Even those Lotus hides behind."
With that, the scouts melted back into the trees, chains rattling until the night swallowed them.
* * * * * * * * *
Silence pressed down heavy.
Qiao Han spat into the dirt, fury burning. "We should have cut them down!"
"They would have strangled us in chains before your blade left its sheath," I said coldly. "Their deaths would feed nothing. Their lives now feed my leash."
Wei Lan tilted her head, lips curling. "Mmm. You tied iron to fire. Clever. But what happens when the leash snaps?"
"Then both burn each other," I said.
She laughed, low and poisonous.
Shen Yu sat trembling, ink splattered across his robes, brush still clutched tight. His eyes darted to me, full of terror.
"You… you used my hand to—"
I cut him off. "Your hand does not matter. The words matter. And they now live in Iron Hand's breast. Be proud, scribe. You helped weave war."
He swallowed hard, but said nothing more. The leash coiled tighter.
* * * * * * * * *
We returned to the safehold at dawn, the forest behind us echoing with distant clashes. The storm was spreading — faster, hungrier, wider.
Silent Reed awaited us, as always. He leaned against the hall's pillar, arms folded, eyes like knives.
"You disobeyed," he said without greeting.
Wei Lan stiffened. Qiao Han scowled. Shen Yu nearly dropped his brush.
I bowed slightly, calm. "We observed. And we ensured Iron Hand saw Crimson Flame's hand."
Reed's lips curved faintly. "Lotus did not order you to ensure anything. Only to watch."
His steps echoed as he approached, his gaze locked on me. He stopped close enough that I smelled ash clinging to his robes.
"You twist sparks into wildfire," he murmured. "Do you not fear the flames will turn back on you?"
I met his eyes. "Storms drown shadows, Captain. Better I guide the storm than be buried beneath it."
Silence stretched long, sharp as a drawn blade.
Then Reed chuckled — brief, low, dangerous.
"Too quickly," he said. "You learn too quickly."
He turned, shadows swallowing him as he departed.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, I lay awake, muscles aching, body still weak. My ribs throbbed, my breath wheezed faintly. I was no iron yet.
But my web was growing.
Crimson Flame already sharpened their fire. Iron Hand already rattled their chains. All from one ember, one lie.
I flexed my bloodied hands, whispering to myself:
"Storms may burn webs. But I will weave faster than fire consumes."
The leash tightened. Not on me. On them.