The morning came gray and hollow. The river between Yong'an and Ye Cheng steamed in the cold, its edges hardening to ice that whispered when it moved. Scouts returned with eyes rimmed red, their horses lathered. They said Xia's banners had pulled back half a mile—too clean, too even. Feiyan watched the horizon and said, "They've learned from us."
Ziyan nodded once. "Then let them learn one lesson more."
She sent Wei and Li Qiang to reinforce the ridge, ordered Shuye and Han to lay new traps beneath the broken bridge. The camp moved with the silence of a body holding its breath. Frost crept over the abandoned siege engines, turning them into monuments for things that hadn't worked. Even the birds stayed gone.
That night, when the moon smothered itself behind clouds, the river changed color. From the far bank came a pulse of sound—a rhythmic cracking that wasn't wood. The engineers of Xia had found patience and turned it into a weapon. They were freezing the shallows, pushing forward iron frames to make a bridge of frost. Feiyan swore softly. "They'll cross before dawn."
Shuye shook his head, already calculating. "Pitch won't catch on ice."
"Then we burn what holds it," Ziyan said.
She ordered the dam opened. Men hesitated—once the flood came, it would drown their own fords, their supply lines, their chance of retreat. Ziyan raised her hand and pointed north, where the stars had died behind smoke. "Better no road than one they can walk."
The gates creaked. The river took a breath and roared. A wall of black water tore loose, carrying the last of their jars, ripping the frozen bridge to shards. The ice shattered with a cry that no throat could match. Men on both sides shouted; torches spun like lost prayers. Xia's soldiers fled, but so did many of theirs. When the roar passed, only the river spoke—hoarse, tired, unpersuaded.
By dawn, a courier arrived under a white flag. His horse's eyes were wild; his fingers shook around a seal pressed deep into wax. The letter bore the Emperor's mark but smelled of Zhang's ink. Ziyan slit it with her knife and read:
By order of His Imperial Will, the defenders of Yong'an are to fall back to the northern plains for consolidation of forces. The regent will assume command of the defense.
Feiyan read over her shoulder, lips curling. "Ink lies even when it's dry."
Ziyan folded the letter neatly, fed it into the brazier. "Let smoke decide what truth it wants."
No one spoke until the paper was gone. Han dropped to one knee, not as a lord, but as a man too tired to pretend pride was armor. "My gates are yours until they break."
At noon, the mist thickened. From its white belly came drums—slow, then faster, then overlapping like arguments. Horns bled through the sound. Ziyan rose and called for every rider to their lines. The first ranks of Xia emerged half-seen, armor dull with frost, banners ragged from the flood. They came without shouting. They had learned her silences, too.
The battle began in fragments. Li Qiang's men met the charge in the shallows, steel flashing with the rhythm of breathing. Wei laughed once, a bark that turned into a war cry, and took a rider off his horse with a strike that bent the air. Shuye's traps caught the second wave; smoke leapt, then fell apart under the cold.
Feiyan moved along the parapet, quiet as the shadow of a falling leaf. Her knife wrote short verses in the fog, each one ending in red. She saw Ziyan standing by the command tent, her hand on the jar that carried their orders, and thought: she no longer waits for empires to speak.
When the enemy's engineers reached the broken bridge and tried to lay planks across the ruins, Ziyan raised her arm. Han's riders swept down from the ridge with a noise like thunder made of joy. The enemy broke before them. In the crush of retreat, the river ran thick and slow, carrying men and shields alike.
When the horns ceased, the only sound was wind over armor. The snow had turned gray with ash and blood. Wei stood in the water up to his knees, counting the dead aloud until the numbers began to repeat. Li Qiang sat with his sword across his lap and said nothing.
Feiyan wiped her blade, the cloth black and final. Ziyan opened her ledger and wrote a single line: The river no longer chooses sides.
She looked south, toward where the smoke rose from Ye Cheng, her city once, her wound always. "Tomorrow," she said, "we march. We take back what was meant to bury us."
No one answered. They didn't need to. The wind carried her words into the cold, and the road—scarred, weary, but listening—stirred again.