Echoes in an Empty City
They arrived in Yuzhen on a morning when the wind barely moved.
Mist was rising slowly from the dry moat, like a sigh exhaled from beneath the earth. When Kaelen dismounted, there were no trumpets, no gunfire—this was a reclamation without ceremony. A minister accompanying him tried to recite the imperial decree beside a cracked stele, but the words were swallowed by echoes reverberating through the empty city before he could finish.
"I can't hear it," a page behind him whispered.
Kaelen didn't reply. He looked toward the city gate—unbarred, untouched by struggle, unadorned by welcome. The placard above read "Submission," newly painted and unevenly coated; a single drop of black paint was still wet. The guards flanking the entrance wore mismatched armor, belts half-fastened. It was unclear whether they were remnants of the old garrison or a hastily assembled watch.
Inside, it was even quieter.
On the flagstone roads, weeds tangled with scraps of paper. A gaunt dog dragged a broken leg across the old marketplace. South Street—once the artery of trade—had collapsed stone platforms and rainwater pooled in three murky layers, as if blood left to separate and stain.
"This place... has long been empty," murmured the Prefect beside him.
Kaelen picked up a fallen military token, its surface etched with a bygone reign. He brushed the dust from it with his thumb. The era name stirred something faint in him—he remembered it from banquets in the palace, whispered between songs in a year of his childhood.
"They say this city now belongs to us," Kaelen said—not as a declaration, but as if repeating something he'd heard before, with a tone too hesitant to be certain.
The official folded the decree and added quickly, "Yuzhen is now restored to the empire. Our borders shine once more."
Kaelen glanced at him. There was no agreement in his eyes, no objection either. He simply looked out toward the broken watchtower at the city's center. A torn flag hung below it, motionless in the wind, plastered flat against the mast as if it had long since lost the will to fly.
"Are we to rebuild this city?" one clerk asked, tentatively.
Kaelen gave no answer. He simply turned and ordered the column to march forward—into the hollow, dim city that had been "returned."
And he knew then: they had reclaimed nothing.
Only echoes deeper than battle remained, tucked into every brick and beam, waiting for the wind to come and recite them again.
The Map Redrawn
The map was spread across a long obsidian table.
The room was dim. Drapes were half drawn. Light filtered in through an amber-inlaid skylight, casting a pale wash over the northern borders on the ash-grey surface. Thick knuckles tapped gently against the edge of the parchment, making a solid, deliberate sound—like assigning a command.
"This is no longer the frontier."
Wanyan Horo said it quietly, but with a kind of steel that allowed no refutation. His finger traced the southern edge of Yanjing, stopping at a blurred intersection between moss green and pale gold—once marked as "redeemed through treaty," now shaded in the grey of non-affiliation.
"Since we moved the capital," he continued, "we no longer need Lornar's borders to define what we call civilization."
Across from him sat a few old commanders of the steppe, alongside newly appointed ministers from the court. Trust was thin among them, but they all understood—Horo did not speak merely for himself. The figure standing behind him was not just a general; it was the beginning of a new chapter writing itself in power.
"What did they gain?" scoffed a councilor named Babu. "A few hollowed-out cities? Valleys we already drained of grain? All they bought from us was a scabbard—our blades haven't even been drawn."
Silence followed.
The ink on the map still glistened. It had been redrawn the night before. The latest line—arcing almost mockingly—curved around Yuzhen and pointed unflinchingly toward Bianjing.
"They still believe in the treaty," a young deputy murmured. "They don't realize we moved the capital not for safety, but for proximity."
"Proximity to whom?" Babu asked.
Horo replied, "To whoever needs pressing down."
No one spoke after that.
In the corner, a brazier burned dried deer dung. The scent was bitter, acrid. One by one, the men rose, placing their jade tokens at the map's edge in quiet assent. Finally, Horo sealed the southern boundary with red wax, circled the new line, and pressed the seal of the court into it.
"From this moment," he said,
"that land is no longer a buffer."
He watched the seal cool, harden.
"It's a front line."
Ink Without Blood
By dusk, the courtyard of the Secretariat was littered with scraps of sandalwood-colored paper.
Officials leaving the morning court had handed their discarded drafts to clerks without a glance. Some still-damp ink was smeared underfoot, leaving footprints across the stone steps—blooms of bruised black. Among the crumpled papers lay Kaelen's memorial, half-curled at the corner, draped over a congratulatory dispatch, already peeling at the edge.
That day, the court's discussion on the matter of Yuzhen lasted less than fifteen minutes.
"The people have settled, the garrisons are stable," reported a Bureau secretary, quoting favorable reports from the frontier. His tone was polished: "The sparks have been extinguished; the northern lands now return to harmony."
A senior ritual official nodded with a smile. "A reopened victory indeed. Not just the soldiers—one could say even the heavens turn their hearts back to us."
No one mentioned the disrupted supply routes, the flight of tax households, or the lost military registers. Those phrases—"incomplete rosters," "abandoned outposts," "provisions overdue by seventy days"—though repeated in actual dispatches, belonged to another language, unfit for utterance in the elegance of the hall.
Kaelen stood at the end of the official line, holding the envelope he had intended to present aloud. He was not summoned, not questioned, not required.
After court was dismissed, the Grand Chancellor lingered in the Inner Pavilion over wine. He said softly to the Right Minister beside him:
"How is Kaelen? Still stationed in the north, I suppose?"
"Not yet returned. But the reports are thorough. No cause for concern."
"Ah." The Chancellor nodded, smiling. "Better to keep him posted a while longer. Generals should not come back too soon—it stirs unnecessary speculation."
There were nods, the air as mild as a spring banquet.
Meanwhile, a frontier report detailing five missing watch camps, three undelivered convoys, and unresolved unrest in Yuzhen sat untouched for two days in the Left Secretariat. It was returned unread, cited for "ambiguous tone," and sent back for revision.
At that moment, the court was busy scripting peace into being—choosing words with care to fit the ceremonial mold. And the truths on paper were being trimmed, redrafted, tucked beneath brighter returns more pleasing to the throne.
No blood was shed.
Only ink, still wet, had already sealed the fate of the borderlands.
The City Behind the Front
From the southern gate, the city was tightening.
After the second bell, alley mouths between the five wards were sealed off, leaving just narrow passages—no wider than a single person. Fresh whitewash marked the bricks: "Preparation Line." Brass notices were posted by day and removed by dusk. No one dared ask what they said, but everyone whispered the same thing:
"This isn't another drill."
Three days ago, the green flags were replaced with iron ones. Their tips were weighted with lead. Even when the wind rose, they didn't move—like commands suspended mid-air.
The oil press at the southern market fell silent. The owner said the pot cracked. In truth, the blacksmith had borrowed his furnace, in exchange for three barrels of dried leather.
The iron wells were locked. Apothecaries replaced their signboards—"For Military Use Only." Even the temple wrapped its pillars in copper, "to prevent reflection at night," they said.
"Did you hear the gong?" someone asked.
"No. But the birds have stopped singing."
Yanjing wasn't collapsing.
It was contracting.
Not retreating—preparing.
—
At one alley mouth, a street vendor packed away his flute, wrapped his goods in a yellow cloth, and walked the length of the street, back turned to the unlit windows.
Children no longer flew paper kites.
They drew chalk squares on the ground instead, labeled:
"First Army," "Third Army," "Seventh Banner."
A woman closed her door as softly as she could, as if afraid of waking something. But behind her, the kitchen had long gone silent—every jar of water drained and requisitioned for the garrison's purification stations.
By the third bell, the city garrison had begun expanding. Tents spilled onto the streets. One had already occupied the courtyard of an old academy. Desks were stacked into a makeshift wall. A red placard from the previous dynasty hung on it: "Lecture Suspended."
A soldier stood shaving his head outside a bookshop.
The blade paused at his jaw.
He swallowed. Said nothing.
Beside him, someone mended boots. The thread didn't break.
No one spoke. But everyone knew:
Tomorrow would not be today.
—
Inside the palace, bulletins were already restricted. Only the Department of War Logistics was permitted full access to the city's seals. Other offices were instructed to "exercise discretion and prevent panic."
Once, a scribe at the Ministry of Appointments wrote the phrase "early warning" into a memo.
He was dismissed the same afternoon.
At dawn, an old court historian transcribing the imperial calendar scribbled a note on the back of the page:
"Today, the wind does not turn.
The drums do not sound.
The birds do not sing.
And the people do not speak."
He didn't know why he wrote it.
Only that the page felt too empty—
And if he didn't fill it, tomorrow would.
—
Yanjing was not a city before war.
It was part of the war already—only the order had yet to be given.
The wind had changed.
The iron flags did not flutter.
Every wall seemed to breathe,
As if waiting for something to tear through the last layer of silence before dawn.
Warnings Lost to Paper
He was rewriting the memorial for the fifth time.
The oil lamp in the tent had burned down half a bowl. Three stacks of paper sat at his side: one for battle reports, one for supply figures, and one labeled "No Response." The topmost page still held the warmth of his fingers, though the ink had long since cracked dry. A breeze slipped into the tent, curling the edge of the parchment—like it meant to lift the words right off the page.
His name was Aderan, commander of the Fifth Northern Division. Since the first frost, two deputy generals had been reassigned. Their replacements arrived without command rights. Orders from the capital were unclear: defensive assignments came without maps, while rations were distributed according to maps that no longer matched the field.
The front-line trenches had grown moss.
The supply carts were stuck in gorges.
Scouts reported that Velkhar men were clearing forests, gauging wind, laying roads.
He'd submitted his warning to three bureaus: the Ministry of War, the Privy Council, and the Department of Military Affairs.
All three replied.
Not one answered what he had asked.
The first: requested a summary of all provincial matters "for comprehensive judgment."
The second: reminded him to mind his phrasing—no exaggeration of hostilities.
The third: informed him the border was "already under high-level coordination; do not burden central command."
He stopped using scribes. He wrote by his own hand now, each stroke drawn slowly. The wind outside was faint, yet there came the low clatter of armor—not enemy forces, but his own patrols. Their task wasn't to guard against intruders, but to guard against "alarmist talk."
They had begun night patrols not to deter the enemy,
but to deter the thought of the enemy.
He wrote on the page:
"Today, five irregular movements along the border. Whether foe or phantom is unknown. Yet the troops grow fearful…"
He paused.
Those four characters—"the troops grow fearful"—were ones he had written this time last year, in a different letter. The reply then had stated, "Such phrasing risks stirring unease among the lower ranks." That memorial had been returned. The front collapsed weeks later.
Five regiments were lost.
He remembered the signatory on the reply: Minister Xu. His prose was immaculate.
He revised:
"Conditions remain unsettled. Requesting supply and envoy to calm morale."
The tip of his brush trembled.
He realized he had started writing in their language.
Not to be heard.
But so the words, at least, might be allowed to arrive.
Even if no one replied.
Even if, by then, the city, the army, the paper—no longer existed.
—
Outside, a soldier coughed.
He looked at the unsealed page.
Then took out a fresh sheet,
and began again.
The sixth time.
Feathers in the Fire
The alliance banner was burned on a moonless, wind-heavy night.
It had once hung at the center of the Hall of Accord—stitched in deep gold thread, bearing the twin crests of the two nations. Each corner was tied with feathered knots, symbols of "an oath carried on the wind." The pact was signed seven years ago. Now, it was faded, torn at the edges. Its last appearance in a Velkhar state decree had been as part of a "mutual defense understanding."
Herro removed it from the wall himself.
He said nothing.
He folded it four times and placed it in a basin of iron. A servant handed him the oil. Just before lighting the flame, he said only:
"From now on, we no longer need their permission."
The flames leapt. The embroidery melted first. Then the feathers caught.
As they burned, the feathered knots made a high-pitched chirp, like a bird's neck being snapped.
Some said it sounded like the old alliance mourning.
Others said it was only fire.
---
The orders were issued before first light.
Of the seven southern divisions, four received command to pivot southeast; the remaining three maintained standard drills as cover. The command phrase was brutally simple—just five words:
"Relocate to Southern Line Three."
Maps were updated that same night, sealed in copper tubes, lacquered black.
The new formation bent like a drawn bow—its arrowhead aimed directly at the western edge of Yanzhou. Beyond that: no turn, no retreat.
Herro passed through the outer hall and saw a scribe still copying old directives.
He paused.
Then said:
"After tomorrow, all paper will be too slow."
---
Dawn was nearing.
The ashes from the burned banner were poured into the canal, carried off by the current. The brazier was scrubbed clean. A new seal affixed. No one spoke of the fire.
No celebration.
No proclamation.
No drums.
Everything continued as usual.
Except the sound of hooves—headed south—began marking an irreversible rhythm into every stone-paved street:
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Before the First Drum
Night hadn't fully settled. A veil of silvery-gray clouds still clung to the edge of the sky—
like canvas stretched over a drum not yet struck.
Kaelen stood atop the leaning tower at Yanzhou's western wall.
He wore no cloak, no armor.
He simply stood—
like a nail driven into rotted wood,
outside of time.
Below him lay the parade ground, cleared only the night before.
The earth had been churned three times,
grass roots upturned,
soil the color of iron.
Three hundred soldiers had once camped there. Now—emptiness.
The braziers were cold.
One had toppled sideways.
A brass mallet lay at the edge, caught by the wind, rolling once with a hollow:
Thud.
Only once.
Then silence.
He gazed westward.
There was nothing to see—only a ridge,
outlined in the dusk like a beast crouching low.
The beast didn't move,
but it breathed—
slow, heavy, the sound of torn iron plates straining in the dark.
He spoke a few names—softly.
"Eran... Calveth... Jun..."
Not the dead.
The still living.
He said them lightly,
as if afraid to hear them echo.
When he finished,
he closed his eyes.
The wind swept past.
It moved neither his hair
nor the unseen banner beyond the western ridge.
If the flag was there,
it had not been raised.
He thought of something from long ago—
his mother once told him:
Before the drums of war sound, the stars hide themselves.
Because stars do not wish to watch the blood below.
He looked up.
No stars tonight.
Only clouds.
Only silence where a drum might one day sound.
And he thought—
this city had already fallen.
Only, no one had struck the first beat yet.