The day after the Swan Presentation, the palace woke to a different hush: not of fear, but of calculation.
Every corridor carried the same whisper, soft as silk slippers on marble:
"The wolf offered a crown; the girl took it. What will the dragon do now?"
Lan Yue felt the question every time a court lady's gaze flicked to the black-jade circlet now wrapped in linen at her belt.
She had not dared wear it—yet it clung to her like a brand.
Dawn drill — north yard
Han barked new orders: pairs, live steel, full speed.
No one pulled blows; bruises were cheaper than mistakes.
Chen Wei faced her, wooden practice blade splintered from last night's fire. "They say you're the wolf's chosen bride," he teased, circling.
"They say a lot of things," Yue answered, parrying. "Most rot before sunrise."
He lunged; she pivoted, hooked his ankle, sent him sprawling.
Han snorted. "Less gossip, more footwork. Again."
Across the yard, Zhao Shen watched from under the eaves, arms folded. His eyes followed her blade the way a falcon tracks a lark—possessive, proud, worried. He wore no crown, only the plain grey robe of a supervising prince. When their gazes brushed, he inclined his head: tonight. She answered with the smallest nod.
Mid-day — Empress Dowager's solar
The room smelled of ink and old sandalwood. Dowager sat before a low table scattered with ivory counters: a map of the realm rendered in game pieces—dragon carved from white jade, wolf from black.
"You played well yesterday," she said without looking up. "But games have second moves."
Yue knelt, palms open. "I await instruction, Majesty."
The Dowager lifted the black wolf, turned it between manicured fingers. "The envoy returns at dusk. He expects either a bride-name, or a refusal that gives him excuse for war. We will offer a third path." She placed the wolf beside a white swan piece—side by side, not touching. "A hostage exchange. Our swan for their wolf. Equal risk, equal honour."
Yue's pulse stumbled. "Who is the swan?"
The Dowager's gaze flicked to her, sharp as a hair-dagger. "You, child. You already wear his token. You already speak his tongue. You will ride north as guest of the Wolf King—under my seal of protection—until a final treaty is signed. If they harm you, the realm unites behind us. If they treat you well, we gain time to fill our granaries and sharpen our spears."
A cold hollow opened beneath her ribs. A queen's gambit: sacrifice the unexpected piece, turn embarrassment into leverage.
"Do you consent?" the Dowager asked—voice polite, tone absolute.
Yue swallowed. "I serve the realm."
"Good." The Dowager lifted a small white jade seal—swan engraved on its base—and pressed it into Yue's palm. "With this you speak with my voice. Do not let them forget it."
Armoury store-room — afternoon
She found Zhao Shen alone among racks of spears, sunlight striping the dust.
"I'm to be the swan," she said without greeting.
He did not feign surprise; he had clearly argued and lost. Jaw tight, he held out a bundle: light lamellar armour lacquered pearl-white, flexible as silk. "Made for you. Hidden under furs it will pass for northern make."
She took it; the plates were warm from his hands. "Your mother plays deep."
"She plays to win." He stepped closer, voice low. "I cannot stop the game, but I can change the board. Take this as well." He pressed a second token beside the swan seal—his own dragon jade, twin to the one she already carried. "One to show the wolves, one to summon my men. Wherever you are, wave it under moonlight; scouts will find you."
Their fingers brushed; neither pulled away.
"Roots heavier than wings," she reminded softly.
His eyes flared. "Come back with both roots and wings intact, or I will burn every forest north of the river to find you."
It sounded like promise, like confession, like fear dressed as fury. She tucked both seals into the secret inner pocket of her armour and bowed—not the shallow court bow, but the full guard salute, fist to heart.
"I will return, Your Highness. That is my move."
Stable yard — dusk
Fifty riders waited: twenty northern warriors under Bai Feng, thirty imperial guards under Captain Han. Equal numbers, equal distrust.
Bai Feng's gaze found her the moment she appeared. He noted the white armour, the black-jade circlet now buckled at her throat like a collar. His smile was thin.
"The swan flies north. We shall keep her safe—until she chooses whose sky to share."
Zhao Yuan rode up beside his brother, voice light, eyes hard. "See that you do, wolf. Lose a single feather and the dragon will notice."
Zhao Shen said nothing. He sat astride his black charger, cloak snapping, eyes only for Yue. When their gazes locked, he lifted two fingers to his brow—guard's farewell, not prince's.
She answered the same, then wheeled her mare toward the gate.
Hooves clattered; torches flared; the palace fell behind. Ahead, the northern road opened—dark, pine-scented, unknown.
As the column passed beneath the outer barbican, Yue touched the two tokens in her pocket: swan and dragon, queen and prince, duty and heart.
The gambit was in motion.
Somewhere beyond the forests, the Wolf King waited—to bargain, to break, or perhaps to teach her moves no court board had ever seen.
She straightened in the saddle, felt the mare's stride match her heartbeat, and rode into the night.