Rain swept over Shanjing in slow, whispering strokes, a curtain of grey that blurred the banners and stone lions of the imperial city. From the gilded eaves of the Hall of Nine Pillars, water traced the dragon carvings as if the heavens mourned in silence. Within, flame flickered low in lotus-shaped braziers, casting uneven light upon the thrones and banners that bore the past glories of fallen generals. But no fire touched the ceremonial basin today. Only water, still and silent, reflected the unspoken fears of an empire on the edge.
Lord Qiu entered with no herald, the hem of his cloak soaked in rain, his armor dulled with travel. There was no blood on him—only exhaustion, and the weight of a name lost in the steppe winds. He knelt not in reverence, but necessity.
The Emperor stood with his back turned, robes whispering like dry leaves. "You saw him."
"I did."
"Your judgment?"
"We misread him," Qiu said, rising slowly. "Altan doesn't crave glory. He aims for permanence."
A second voice stirred the chamber. Commander Han Zhu stepped out from the shadow of a red silk pillar, his face drawn, armor unpolished. "Then speak it plainly. How badly were we broken?"
Qiu's voice remained even, but behind it there was something raw. "Both armies numbered twenty thousand. He didn't meet us head-on. He angled his force—drew us into a trap by stacking his left with elite cultivators. They fell on our right wing. General Yue Lin died early. An arrow to the throat. His command guard buckled within the hour."
Han Zhu's jaw clenched. "The center held."
"It did. So did our left. But Altan didn't need to win the whole line. He refused the center. Let it press forward. Our formation stretched. Our orders frayed. Once the right collapsed, our middle lost coherence. The Gale army didn't pursue. They let us stumble. Then circled back."
The Emperor moved to the silk-draped map table. He traced his fingers along red ink trails, roads barely visible under scattered pine-needle markers. "And the survivors?"
"Retreating. We've pulled back past Stone Hollow. What remains isn't enough to defend the capital."
"We can conscript."
"We can't train them in time."
Silence followed, interrupted only by the soft drip of rain echoing through the roof beams.
Qiu continued, "Altan can strike before the thaw. If he moves before spring, there is nothing left to hold him."
The Emperor's hand hovered over the basin. Water rippled once. "So we sue for truce."
"We must. Or lose the heartland."
Han Zhu muttered, "And give him the space to root poison deeper into the clans."
"He doesn't care about our permission," Qiu replied. "Only the time to prepare."
"What did he demand?"
"Two years of peace. No taxes on the borderlands. No patrols beyond White Teeth Ridge."
The basin's surface danced again, though no wind stirred the hall.
"He doesn't think we'll honor it," Qiu added quietly.
The Emperor turned at last. "He said that to you?"
"He said we'd break the peace before the snow melts."
Han Zhu scoffed. "He presumes to read us?"
"He reads the pattern of things. He knows how we move before we do."
The Emperor stared at the map. "How long does he give us?"
"Fourteen moons. One year and two."
Han Zhu stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "He's not just stalling. He's building something. We give him space, he'll turn the steppe into fortress land."
"And if we move too fast," Qiu said, "we bleed for it."
The Emperor picked up a brush, dipped it into black ink, and drew a line across the eastern steppe. "Then we wait. But not for two years. Not even one."
The line cut through ridges and settlements, a scar across imagined futures. "In eight months, we begin. No banners. No horns. A whisper through the grass. We sever the roads, starve the clans, scatter the winds before they gather."
Han Zhu's mouth opened, then closed.
Qiu bowed his head. "That choice carries a cost."
The Emperor gazed once more into the water. "Then we pay it. Better to burn a symbol than watch it become a throne."
Far to the north, where the sky met no walls and the wind had no leash, Altan stood on the Ridge of Forgotten Names. Fire crackled low behind him, its smoke curling like script into the night. A rider galloped into camp, the white banner of truce fluttering behind him.
Burgedai approached first, snow clinging to his furs. "It's done. The court accepted."
Altan didn't turn. "They need the pause more than we do."
"You're sure they'll break it?"
"They'll wait until they think they have the advantage. Then they'll try to end us in one stroke."
Khulan climbed the ridge behind them, robes smudged with dust and rain, her arms full of scrolls. "The Wind Weavers are adapting fast. The children absorb Echo Step faster than the elders. We're seeing rhythm between the clans."
Chadhan knelt beside the fire, unfurling a fresh map. "We control every pass along White Teeth. If they come early, we cut their legs before they reach the ridge."
Altan nodded. In his Sea of Mind, the storm had shifted. What once howled now flowed. Beneath the Trial Chasm, where the failed dead whispered in restless silence, he had found the Archive of Dust and Flame. Its teachings spoke not in language, but pressure, weight, and clarity. He had emerged not as a vessel of rage, but a wielder of refinement.
The Gale Host had become a discipline. No longer scattered blades, but a sword forged in balance. The Pillars of Five Breath Disciplines spread through every clan. Outer forms taught resilience. Inner forms trained the stillness before motion.
Burgedai rested a hand on his curved blade. "If they strike early?"
Altan's voice came low and cold. "Then we show them what we forged in silence. We don't waste their delay. We sharpen it."
Overhead, the wind shifted. Grass bent as if listening. Far off, the storm moved—too distant to hear, but close enough to name.