The fortress of Yong'an rose from the ridge like a fist that had learned patience. Stone kept the wind honest. Banners along the walls showed running horses, their manes stitched with silver thread that caught the thin sun and made it look more generous than it felt. Below, the road funneled travelers toward a gate whose iron teeth did not smile.
They arrived with frost in their hair and dust under their tongues. Feiyan rode first, cloak cut short for speed, eyes measuring angles and men. Ziyan kept the pack horse close, the jar's steady heat against her knee like a secret hand. Wei and Li Qiang flanked them as if the air might draw steel; Shuye rode at the rear with the amused fatalism of someone who had practiced being outnumbered.
"State your business," the gate captain called, bored until he noticed how unbored he felt.
"We bring a ledger and a warning," Ziyan said. "Both are heavier than they look."
The watchman's lips tightened at the name she gave. The word "Ziyan" had learned to travel faster than horses, gathering barbs along the way. Still, after a murmured consultation, the gate opened a hand's width more than caution allowed. A boy ran from the wall at the captain's gesture; minutes later, a messenger returned from the keep with a knot of red cord bound around his wrist—a summons, not an arrest.
They were led through courtyards designed to make men consider their smallness: past a practice field where horse-archers stitched arrows into a straw man until its straw remembered pain; past a shrine where riders knelt not for forgiveness but for accuracy. At the great hall's door hung two banners, each an inked horse in mid-gallop. The brushstrokes were vigorous enough to be rude.
Lord Han received them in armor without apology. He was not old, but his face had refused to be young once the first campaign scarred his cheek. His hair was bound back with rawhide, not silk. Advisors stood along the wall like shelves that had been overfilled with caution.
"So," Han said, voice as flat as a good road. "The minister's daughter who taught herself to be a knife."
"The minister's daughter learned the price of silence," Ziyan said. "The knife learned to speak."
He did not smile. His gaze slid to Feiyan and found there a shape that made ordinary men adjust their stance. It slid past Wei and Li Qiang and judged them worth the feed of three horses. It lingered on Shuye a heartbeat too long—men who fought often recognized the hands of men who made unbreakable things. Finally it returned to the jar at Ziyan's knee.
"You brought me a pot," he said.
"A city sits inside it," Ziyan replied, setting it on the table with proper irreverence. She unwrapped one ledger, the cedar-scent rising like a memory that refused to be ashamed. "Here are the routes Zhang starved and the signatures he bought. Here is what he did to make Xia's march easier. Here is what he will do to you when you are no longer useful."
Han's fingers did not move. "And what would you have me do that does not make me less useful to myself?"
"Hold your gates," Ziyan said. "Saddle your fast horses. When Zhang's stores move, strike the wagons and leave the soldiers hungry enough to remember how to doubt. I have two lords already closing their doors against him. Be the third. Three gates make a wall. Walls change wars."
"Words," one advisor said with a smile that wanted teeth. "Zhang offers silver and safety. You offer ink and danger."
Feiyan leaned her shoulder against a pillar and let her voice go lazy. "Zhang offers you a rope that feels like a belt. It keeps your trousers up until the day he decides to pull."
Laughter flickered in the room and went out quickly when Lord Han did not feed it. He drummed once on the table with two fingers. The sound was a hoof-beat in a courtyard.
"Regent Zhang has already written to me," he said. "He offers honors if I send you to him with your wrists tidy."
Ziyan's pulse did not quicken. "He offers a furnace to anyone with a match. When the house is warm, he counts the matches and makes a list."
The advisor with the convenient smile stepped forward, palm out. "Majesty—"
The runner reached the door before the advisor reached wit. He fell to one knee and held up a lacquer tube. Lord Han broke the seal with his thumb.
"By order of Regent Zhang," he read aloud, and the hall learned to hold its breath. "Lord Han of Yong'an is commanded to arrest the traitor Li Ziyan and her accomplices upon sight. Their transport will be arranged. Honors will follow obedience."
"See?" the smiling man said, as if he had written the letter himself. "Safety is simple."