The dust clouds rose like golden smoke against the setting sun, marking the return of an army that had been written off as dead eleven years ago. General Yan Wuxian sat astride his black destrier at the head of three thousand mounted warriors, their armor gleaming despite the long journey from the northern borderlands. The crimson banners bearing the dragon insignia of House Yan snapped in the evening breeze—banners that should have been buried with dishonor, now carried with pride by men who had chosen to follow a boy condemned to die.
Wuxian's golden eyes swept over the familiar landscape of the capital's outer provinces. The rice paddies stretched endlessly toward the horizon, worked by farmers who paused in their labor to stare at the approaching army. Children ran alongside the road, pointing and shouting with excitement, while their elders bowed deeply. These people knew the stories—how the Dragon General had held the Khagan's hordes at bay for a decade, protecting not just the empire but the very villages they called home.
"General," called his second-in-command, riding up beside him. Commander Liu Feng was a weathered man of forty, his face bearing the scars of countless battles. He had been a common soldier in the imperial army when he chose to follow the exiled boy-general to what everyone assumed would be certain death. Now he commanded five hundred cavalry and the absolute loyalty of every man under his banner.
"The capital walls are visible ahead. The men are... anxious."
Wuxian nodded, understanding the unspoken concern. These soldiers had followed him into exile, had bled and died for him in the frozen wastes of the northern frontier. Many had never seen the capital, having been recruited from border villages grateful for protection. They knew only the general who had saved their families, not the political machinations that had branded him a traitor's son.
"Send word down the line," Wuxian commanded, his voice carrying the authority of one who had earned absolute loyalty through shared hardship. "We ride as conquerors returning home, not as supplicants seeking forgiveness. Let every man remember—we have spent eleven years proving our worth in blood and battle. The empire owes us honor, not the other way around."
A cheer went up from the ranks as the message passed back through the column. These were not the broken remnants of a disgraced house, but the most formidable fighting force the empire had seen in generations. They rode with the confidence of men who had faced the Khagan's best warriors and emerged victorious, who had turned the northern borderlands from a bleeding wound into an impregnable fortress.
The capital's outer walls came into view as they crested the final hill—massive stone fortifications that had stood for eight hundred years, topped with watchtowers where imperial guards maintained eternal vigilance. But Wuxian's attention was drawn to the crowds gathering along the roadside. Word of their approach had clearly reached the city, and thousands of citizens poured out to witness the return of the legendary Dragon General.
"Long live General Yan!" The cry started somewhere in the crowd and spread like wildfire. "Protector of the realm! Dragon of the North!"
Wuxian felt something twist in his chest at the sound—a mixture of pride and bitter irony. These people celebrated him now, but where had they been when his father mounted the scaffold? Where had their voices been when a fifteen-year-old boy was driven into exile with only shame for inheritance?
The procession continued toward the main gates, but as they drew closer, Wuxian noticed something troubling. The massive bronze gates remained firmly shut, and a line of imperial guards stood at attention before them. Their captain, a soft-looking man with the pale complexion of one who had never seen real battle, stepped forward as the army approached.
"General Yan Wuxian," the captain called out, his voice high and reedy. "By order of His Imperial Majesty, you and your men are commanded to wait here for permission to enter the capital."
A dangerous silence fell over the army. Three thousand battle-hardened warriors, men who had carved their reputation from the frozen bones of their enemies, were being told to wait at their own capital's gates like common merchants seeking trade permits.
Wuxian raised his hand before any of his men could react. His golden eyes fixed on the guard captain with predatory intensity, and the man actually took a step backward despite being surrounded by his own soldiers.
"And where is His Imperial Majesty at this moment?" Wuxian asked, his voice deceptively calm. "Surely he would not keep the army that has defended his northern borders for eleven years waiting without good reason?"
The captain swallowed nervously. "His Majesty is... indisposed. Court business requires his immediate attention. He will summon you when convenient."
The insult was deliberate and unmistakable. To make a general wait at the gates was to publicly diminish his status, to remind him and his army that imperial favor could be withdrawn as easily as it had been granted. It was a demonstration of power, pure and simple.
"Very well," Wuxian said finally, dismounting from his horse. "We shall wait."
The reaction from his men was immediate and angry. Voices rose in protest, hands moved to sword hilts, horses stamped and snorted as their riders' tension communicated itself through the reins. But Wuxian's raised hand commanded absolute silence.
"We kneel," he announced, lowering himself to one knee in the dust before the gates. "Not in submission, but in patience. Let all who see us remember—we are the army that has never known defeat, kneeling by choice, not command."
One by one, his officers followed suit. Liu Feng, scarred and proud, knelt beside his general. The cavalry commanders, men who had earned their ranks through merit and blood, lowered themselves to the ground. Soon, three thousand warriors knelt in perfect formation before the capital gates, their weapons laid across their knees in a display that was simultaneously respectful and unmistakably threatening.
The crowd that had gathered to cheer them fell silent, sensing the tension that crackled through the air like lightning before a storm. Even the imperial guards shifted nervously, realizing that they faced not a defeated rabble but a unified force that chose to show restraint.
Hours passed. The sun traced its path across the sky while the Dragon General and his army maintained their vigil. Citizens brought them water and food, offerings that Wuxian accepted with grave dignity. Children snuck close to stare at the legendary warriors, their eyes wide with hero worship.
As twilight deepened into night, torches were lit along the walls. Still, the army waited. Still, the gates remained closed.
"General," Liu Feng murmured when the moon had risen high overhead, "the men are growing restless. Some speak of forcing the gates."
"And give the emperor excuse to name us rebels?" Wuxian replied quietly. "No. We wait. Let him show his character to all who watch."
It was near dawn when the gates finally groaned open. The same guard captain emerged, looking haggard from his sleepless night of anxious duty.
"His Imperial Majesty grants you audience," he announced. "You may enter—with an escort of no more than fifty men."
Wuxian rose gracefully to his feet, every movement controlled and deliberate. Behind him, his army stood as one, the sound of their rising like distant thunder.
"Commander Liu," he said formally, "establish camp outside the walls. Maintain discipline and readiness. I shall return before sunset."
"And if you don't?" Liu Feng asked quietly.
Wuxian's smile was sharp as a blade's edge. "Then you'll know the emperor has made a very poor decision."