Far south, amid the roar of the battlefield, Wu An froze mid-stride. The silence beneath his ribs stirred — recognition, kinship, warning. Shen Yue's shout reached him through the storm of drums. "Ling An!" she cried.
He did not answer. He had already heard it — the heartbeat of the capital calling to him through the ground. Above them, the sky blackened. The moon dulled to the color of ink.
And from somewhere far away, a woman's voice whispered against the tide:
The roof remembers.
The southern wind carried ash before the fire came. By dawn, the borderlands of Liang were no longer fields but memory—villages flattened into maps of smoke, rice paddies turned to mirrors of blood. The Southern Kingdom's banners had advanced like a tide that refused to stop, and behind them, priests in white beat their drums and named the invasion holy.
Wu An met them beneath the hills of Huai Gate. His army—twenty thousand of the Black Tigers, and what remained of the Lord Protector's elite guard—stood against more than twice their number. The Lord Protector himself was there, armor strapped despite age and illness, watching his son's formation with eyes that had once taught emperors to kneel.
"They march in the name of the Emperor," he said. His voice was brittle iron. "Do not give them the right to believe it."
"They already do," Wu An replied. "All that's left is to teach them what belief costs."
The first clash was not a charge but an awakening. When the two lines met, the sound cracked the horizon. Spears folded. Horses screamed. Men vanished under dust thick enough to taste. The Southern priests chanted above the slaughter, their songs slow, reverent—blessings for those who died on the wrong side of mercy.
Wu An cut through them like a man carving silence. Every strike left the air colder. His soldiers followed not because they trusted him, but because stopping near him felt like standing beside a god who hadn't yet chosen to notice them. Even the Lord Protector hesitated when the shadows at his son's feet began to move without wind.
By midafternoon, the ground itself steamed. The battlefield sank under bodies, and the sky turned copper. Shen Yue shouted orders over the din, her face streaked with soot and disbelief. General Sun held the rear line, dragging back the wounded while arrows fell like rain.
When the Southern commander finally appeared—robes white as bleached bone, crown of thorns glinting in the sun—Wu An rode forward alone. The Lord Protector reached to stop him but did not. A father's command is a brittle thing once war begins.
They met between the lines. The Southern commander lifted a standard embroidered with the imperial seal. "The true Emperor calls for peace," he shouted, his voice booming through the chants behind him. "Kneel, and Liang will be forgiven."
Wu An's reply was the swing of his blade. The commander's banner split in two. The severed cloth caught fire before it touched the ground.
Behind him, the Lord Protector gave the order: Advance.
While the border turned red, Ling An glittered in unnatural calm. The capital's courtyards were swept twice daily; ministers dined under silken awnings, pretending the tremors under their feet were thunder and not the sound of distant war.
In a quiet hall overlooking the empty lotus pond, Wu Jin poured wine with steady hands. Across from him sat Wu Shuang, her wrists bare, her smile patient and impossible. The magnolia branches outside brushed the eaves like a hand counting heartbeats.
"They are losing," he said.
"They are winning," she answered. "Both are the same before the roof falls."
He filled her cup. "The Lord Protector left you here for a reason. You and I—what reason do we serve?"
"To end the waiting."
She reached across the table, her fingers cool against his. For a heartbeat, the lanterns dimmed. The reflection of their joined hands rippled across the wine's surface, then stilled.
Wu Jin's lips curved into a faint, exhausted smile. "When this is done," he murmured, "none of us will be remembered kindly."
"Then let us be remembered truthfully," she said.
Outside, the lotus pond began to ripple though there was no wind. A shadow crossed the water—something vast and wingless, moving beneath the surface. The air thickened, warm and metallic. Somewhere in the palace, a servant began to scream.
Wu Shuang's grip tightened. "The roof remembers," she whispered.
Wu Jin did not pull away. He smiled—half in fear, half in faith. "Then let it fall."
Back at the border, night came slow and wrong. The Southern Kingdom's horns had gone silent. Only the wind spoke, carrying the stench of burnt prayers. The Lord Protector stood over the field of ruin, his armor streaked with blood that wasn't his.
Wu An sheathed his sword without looking back. "We hold," he said.
"For now," his father answered. "But Ling An…"
Wu An turned toward the horizon. The direction of home flickered red, as if the capital itself had caught fire. For the first time in years, he felt the thing under his ribs stir—not hunger, not wrath, but recognition.
"Something moves," he said softly.
The Lord Protector's brow furrowed. "In the capital?"
"In the dark beneath it."
They stood there in silence, the last wind of daylight curling around them. From the east came no birds, no drums—only the echo of laughter carried too far to be human.
Wu An's hand fell to his blade. "The war isn't here anymore," he said. "It's already home."