Seventh night of the first lunar month – Lantern Festival
The palace banished curfew for one evening.
Every gate hung silk globes the colour of plums and peonies; canals floated lotus candles in thousands.
For the cadets, duty rotated so half could wander.
Lan Yue drew the late watch: sunset to moon-zenith on the garden wall, replaced thereafter by Zhao Yuan's squad.
She would miss the mass lantern-launch, but the rule was clear—first duty, then pleasure.
Afternoon – Armoury
Shen appeared while she counted signal arrows.
He carried a small iron lantern, lid pierced with tiny swan shapes.
"For the river," he said, placing it on the counter between them.
"I thought princes launched dragons."
"Swans navigate storms better."
He offered a flint.
"Light it when your watch ends. Set it on the east water-gate.
If it reaches the lake mouth before dawn, the year brings clarity."
She turned the lantern in her hands; metal cold, weight certain.
"Clarity for the realm or for me?"
He met her eyes.
"Start with yourself. The realm will follow."
Dusk – Garden Wall Walk
Snow lingered in shadowed corners, but the sky hung cloudless, bruise-purple.
She paced the parapet, cloak lined with hare-skin, bow slung.
Below, courtiers drifted in perfume trails; musicians struck lutes.
Every laugh felt like a small bird beating against the stone under her boots.
She told herself she did not mind missing the fest—then caught her own reflection in a lacquered shield: lips tight, eyes restless.
She exhaled, watched frost veil the mirror.
Moonrise – Change of Watch
Yuan climbed the stair, red scarf bright against grey stone.
He carried two paper lanterns painted with tiny running hares—her birth year animal.
"Relief's early," she said.
"Trade me," he replied.
"Your duty for my lanterns.
I'll stand your last two hours.
Go, before the river fills with other wishes."
She hesitated.
"Regulations—"
"State that watch may be swapped if both report to the same officer.
That officer is me tonight."
He grinned, but beneath lay earnestness.
She glanced at the hare lanterns swaying in cold air.
"Two hours.
Then I return."
"Two hours is all the world needs," he answered.
East Water-Gate
She descended, found the pier where servants released floating lights.
Canals brimmed with families: children lowering candles in walnut shells, lovers launching paired globes that drifted glued palm-to-palm.
She set Shen's iron swan first, touched flint to oil-soaked wick.
Flame blossomed, threw swan silhouettes across the water.
She pushed it gently; current caught, carried it toward the dark throat of the lake tunnel.
She watched until the spark shrank to a star.
Paper Hares
Next she lit Yuan's pair.
Paper warmed, expanded; hares seemed to leap.
She knelt, set them side-by-side.
They drifted slower, lighter, twirling.
A breeze parted them—one glided east, the other west.
She felt an unexpected tug of loss, then laughed at herself for naming paper toys.
The Return
She climbed back to the wall.
Halfway up the stair she heard voices—low, urgent.
Yuan stood with Shen atop the stairwell, both rigid.
Between them a palace messenger knelt, breathing hard.
"…warehouse district fire," the man gasped.
"Sparks reached the armoury.
Buckets scarce.
Commandant orders every off-duty cadet."
Shen's gaze lifted, found Yue ascending.
For a heartbeat three futures balanced on the landing: festival, duty, and something neither brother could name.
Orders
Shen spoke first.
"Yuan, take your squad south gate, secure water engines.
Lan Yue, with me to the armoury.
We save the arsenal or lose the spring campaign."
Yuan's eyes flicked to the lanterns still glowing below, then to her.
"Be safe," he said—to both of them, but eyes on her.
He dashed down the opposite stair, red scarf disappearing into torch smoke.
Armoury Street
They ran through alleys now choked with citizens carrying treasures from burning shops.
Heat hit like summer.
The armoury roof spat sparks that hissed in the snow.
Shen commandeered a line of cadets passing buckets from the canal.
He sent Yue upward to the parapet gutter—highest safe point—to shoot down burning beams before they could ignite stored pitch.
Roof Edge
Smoke stung tears blind.
She braced, drew Shen's bow, sent shaft after shaft into flaming rafters.
Each hit: a hiss, a collapse, a shower of embers.
One brand spun toward barrels of oil; her arrow pinned it short, shaft smouldering.
Below, Shen's voice rose steady, directing water, counting rhythm.
She heard timbers groan, felt heat gnaw boot soles.
A spark landed on the hare-lantern scarf at her throat; she slapped it out, kept shooting.
Collapse
The centre beam buckled.
Fire poured inside like liquid sunrise.
Shen shouted evacuation; bucket line broke.
He sprinted inside himself—to seal the inner stone doors, saving the eastern magazine.
Yue dropped from parapet, followed without order.
Inside was an oven.
She found him shoving a bronze lever that refused to budge—warped by heat.
She added her weight; metal screamed, doors closed, cutting off the inferno.
They staggered back, coughing black.
Sparks in the Snow
They emerged into alley snow, faces streaked, lungs raw.
The building front crashed behind them, shooting sparks sky-high—some landing on still-drifting lanterns, igniting paper hearts mid-air.
She watched a burning hare tumble into the canal, extinguish with a sigh.
Shen sat beside her on a kerb, breathing hard.
Neither spoke for a while.
Aftermath
Buckets won the night; arsenal loss contained to one wing.
Dawn found smoke rising pale against a rose sky.
Festival crowds drifted home, some carrying half-melted lanterns as souvenirs.
Yuan arrived, soot on cheek, scarf torn.
He saw them seated, nearly touching shoulders, eyes on the dying smoke.
He offered a waterskin; they drank in turn.
Three silhouettes against the rising sun—no victors, only survivors.
Swan's Fate
Later she walked the lake mouth.
Among reeds she found Shen's iron swan—blackened but intact, lodged against a stake.
She lifted it; residual warmth lingered.
A single swan-shaped hole in the metal let morning light shine through like polished jade.
She tucked it inside her cloak, unsure whether to return it or keep it—a lantern that had carried clarity through fire.
Hare's Fate
Yuan's drifting hare was never found.
Rumour said a child fished the charred paper, pressed it in a book of poems—a hare that leapt through flames, carrying wishes no water could drown.
Barracks noon
She entered to find her cot draped with a new red scarf and a scrap of white silk painted with a single running hare.
No note, only the scent of smoke and pine.
She folded both gifts away, then closed her eyes, feeling the weight of metal swan against her heart, paper hare against her memories, and the echo of two voices that had called her safe through the same fire.