Winter arrives without announcement.
Snow settles over Ling An's broken towers, over Zhou's ridgeline fortifications, over the Southern Kingdom's rebuilt artillery arcs. It softens nothing. It only quiets the sound of movement.
Wu An stands on the northern wall when the first signal flare rises from the south.
Not red.
White.
Religious.
The Southern Kingdom has chosen purification over patience.
Below the walls, horns erupt from three directions at once.
They do not attack the river line this time.
They have crossed upstream in silence.
They strike the eastern and western approaches simultaneously.
Coordinated.
Calculated.
And from the north—
Zhou frameworks begin pulsing in deliberate sequence.
Not an assault.
Alignment.
They are preparing to move the moment Ling An falters.
Inside the capital, a messenger bursts into the war chamber.
"The Southern Kingdom advances in three columns!"
"And Zhou?" Liao Yun demands.
"They're repositioning forward."
Of course they are.
Wu An turns to the map.
"They coordinated," Shen Yue says quietly.
"Yes."
Not openly.
But sufficiently.
Zhou will let the South break Ling An's outer defenses.
Then they will "intervene."
Winter has turned strategy into a blade.
"Deploy Southern Suppression to the east," Wu An orders. "Northern Defense holds the ridge."
"And the western breach?" Liao Yun asks.
"I'll take it."
The western gate explodes under concentrated artillery.
Southern infantry flood forward under chanting priests. Their banners burn incense thick enough to blur musket sightlines. They move not like invaders—
But like martyrs.
Black Tigers answer with disciplined volleys.
Cannons roar from Ling An's interior platforms, but winter powder dampens too quickly.
The Southern Kingdom pushes deeper than before.
For the first time since the siege began, Ling An bends.
Above the chaos, Zhou's ridgeline shifts.
Framework towers glow brighter.
They are measuring.
Waiting.
And then—
The assassination attempt begins.
Not outside the walls.
Inside.
A Tiger captain draws steel in the middle of the western command line and lunges toward Wu An.
No hesitation.
No speech.
The blade misses by inches as Shen Yue intercepts.
The assassin dies instantly under Tiger counterfire.
But not before shouting—
"For the restoration!"
The phrase spreads through the ranks like frost.
Internal fracture.
Someone has been cultivating dissent.
Wu An kneels beside the dead captain.
He recognizes him.
Promoted three months ago.
Trusted.
"They're inside," Liao Yun says grimly.
"Yes."
"And the timing?"
"Coordinated."
Southern pressure.
Zhou advancement.
Internal betrayal.
All synchronized.
Wu An rises slowly.
"Seal the inner districts," he orders calmly. "No unit moves without double verification."
The Tigers obey instantly.
But the seed has been planted.
Doubt moves faster than soldiers.
Night falls early under winter cloud.
The Southern Kingdom has taken part of the western lower ward.
Zhou advances half a mile closer.
Ling An holds—
Barely.
Inside the palace, Shen Yue confronts Wu An privately.
"You expected this," she says.
"Yes."
"But not the assassination."
"I expected fracture."
She steps closer.
"You're drifting again."
"I'm adjusting."
"You're isolating."
He says nothing.
The Presence hums faintly—not volatile, but distant.
"You don't trust anyone fully anymore," she says quietly.
"I trust structure."
"That's not the same."
Outside, cannon fire continues in rhythmic intervals.
"You're afraid," she says softly.
He finally looks at her.
"Yes."
"Of dying?"
"No."
A pause.
"Of becoming untouchable."
That lands.
Because it is true.
If he hardens too far—
No one will reach him.
Not Shen Yue.
Not Liao Yun.
Not even himself.
A new messenger arrives mid-conversation.
"Zhou envoys request emergency audience."
"Now?" Shen Yue asks.
"They claim they want to 'assist' against the Southern breach."
Wu An almost smiles.
"Bring them."
The Zhou envoy enters with winter calm.
"Ling An is under pressure," he says smoothly. "Zhou can provide artillery support against the Southern Kingdom."
"In exchange?" Wu An asks.
"Shared command authority over the northern wall."
There it is.
Not alliance.
Occupation.
"And if I refuse?" Wu An asks quietly.
"Then Zhou ensures stability after the fall."
The room grows colder.
Shen Yue watches the exchange carefully.
Wu An steps forward.
"You will inform your Emperor," he says calmly, "that Ling An does not require assistance."
"And if the Southern Kingdom breaches the palace?" the envoy presses.
"They won't."
Confidence.
Not arrogance.
The envoy studies him carefully.
"You gamble heavily."
"No," Wu An replies. "I calculate."
The envoy bows and withdraws.
Outside, Zhou does not yet move.
But their towers glow brighter.
Midnight.
The Southern Kingdom launches one final push.
Three artillery lines fire simultaneously.
The western ward nearly collapses.
Black Tigers bleed heavily.
Ling An wavers.
Wu An walks alone into the front line.
Not roaring.
Not raging.
Cold.
Precise.
Orders shift in rapid sequence. Tigers reposition into narrow choke corridors. Southern troops funnel into kill zones engineered during reconstruction. Powder caches ignite at calculated intervals.
The breach closes.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
By dawn, the Southern Kingdom withdraws again.
Exhausted.
Bloodied.
Zhou halts their advance.
For now.
Ling An stands.
But barely.
And inside the city—
Trust fractures deeper.
Assassins hide.
Guilds whisper.
Soldiers question.
Wu An returns to the palace at sunrise.
Snow falls lightly over bloodstained stone.
Shen Yue waits in silence.
"You held," she says.
"Yes."
"But you're alone in it."
He looks at the rising sun beyond the walls.
Zhou still waits.
The Southern Kingdom regroups again.
Internal dissent simmers unseen.
"Yes," he says quietly.
He is holding the city.
But the cost is rising.
And winter has only begun.