Snow muted the morning drum. Breath misted between soldiers like ghosts deciding whether to linger. Ziyan walked toward the river with her cloak unfastened, as though the cold had agreed not to touch her. Feiyan walked one pace behind; Li Qiang and Wei flanked her; Shuye carried a lacquered box under his arm, as if delivering tea instead of treason.
Zhang did not come himself.
Instead, he sent General Shen—his favored hound, silver-armored and broad shouldered, a man whose face looked carved from loyalty and long winters. He sat astride a dark horse, helm under one arm. Behind him stood a dozen officers, banners furled, swords sheathed. They had expected a criminal. They found a woman who did not bow.
General Shen's gaze flickered to the blue silk on Ziyan's wrist, then to the sword at her hip. "Li Ziyan," he said. "You stand accused of treason, consorting with Qi's enemies, defying imperial command—"
"The Emperor is dead," Ziyan said, voice steady. "You cannot accuse me on behalf of a corpse."
Murmurs traveled behind Shen's men like wind between reeds. He tried to smother it with steel in his tone. "You speak out of turn."
"No," Ziyan said. "I speak because there is no Emperor left to do so."
Shen's jaw worked. "Words do not change the law."
Ziyan turned—not to him, but to the men behind him. Their cheeks were stiff with frost and uncertainty. Some had mud on their boots from Ye Cheng's ruins. Some still wore imperial tassels, though they no longer knew whom they served.
"Is this why you wear that crest?" Ziyan asked them quietly. "To protect a regent who sits on ash? Who lets Xia burn northern villages while he hunts his own? Who starves your families to feed his army, then calls it patriotism?"
General Shen lifted a hand, but something in the silence stopped even him.
Ziyan nodded once, and Shuye stepped forward. He knelt, set the box in the snow, and opened it.
Inside lay folded silk letters, crisp and sealed with Zhang's own sigil. Ziyan lifted one, held it between two fingers.
"Zhang's orders," she said. "Sent to his officers in the border prefectures. Grain meant for refugees in Ye Cheng—rerouted to his private arsenals. In these scrolls, he orders towns to be abandoned, fields burned so Xia cannot use them. The people left to die. Your people."
Shen's horse shifted beneath him; he gripped the reins as if they might answer. "Forgery."
Feiyan stepped forward, one eyebrow raised. "Your seal is on them. Or did Zhang start lending it to millers and fishermen?"
A young lieutenant—barely past boyhood, hair still tied in student's style—leaned forward before he remembered not to. "Why… why would the Regent burn his own land?"
"So he alone can rebuild it," Ziyan said. "So every grain, every roof, every life owes him."
Shen's officers stared at the silk, at the woman before them, at the river running black beneath thin ice. Something cracked in the air. Not loudly. Like a thin blade leaving its sheath.
Shen's voice dropped. "You want them to believe you fight for the people. You betray Qi—"
"The only betrayal," Ziyan said, stepping closer, "is to watch a kingdom rot and do nothing."
Shen's hand went to his sword.
Li Qiang's hand found his before it drew. No steel. Just fingers, steady and absolute. Wei shifted his spear. Feiyan didn't move at all—she didn't need to.
Ziyan looked past Shen, to the soldiers watching. "I will not kneel again. Not to Zhang. Not to any throne built on bones. I fight Xia when Zhang will not. I feed villages he would starve. Call me traitor if it lets you sleep. But if you are tired of bleeding for a man who cannot protect the Empire—it is time to choose."
Nothing moved. Then—from the back ranks—one soldier lowered his sword. Another unfastened the knot beneath his chin. A third took off his helmet and held it at his side.
Shen saw it. Fury burned through his restraint. "You would follow her? A disgraced minister's daughter? A girl hiding behind rebels and thieves?"
"No," said the young lieutenant softly. "A girl who is not hiding anymore."
Shen's rage gathered like storm. "Enough." His sword came free, ring of metal sharp against the cold. "Li Ziyan, by the authority of the Regent, I—"
Ziyan did not draw. She only said, "General Shen, this is the last time I will offer mercy. Turn back. Or stand in Zhang's shadow until Xia cuts it from under you."
The wind paused, listening.
Shen's blade trembled—just once. Perhaps from cold. Perhaps not.
He sheathed it.
"You will regret this road," he said softly.
Ziyan's eyes did not leave his. "Good. Regret means I lived."
He wheeled his horse, banners turning with him. Some of his men followed. Some did not.
When they were gone, the snow began again—light, without malice.
Wei exhaled. "Well. That could've gone worse."
Feiyan glanced at Ziyan. "You didn't even draw."
"I didn't need to," Ziyan said.
Li Qiang looked at the broken ice on the river. "He will come again. Harder."
"Yes," Ziyan said. Her hand brushed the hilt of her sword, but rested instead over the blue silk binding her wrist. "But this time, when he does—I will already be waiting."
She turned from the river. Behind her, soldiers were still kneeling.
Not to a princess.
Not to a fugitive.
But to the first spark of a kingdom not yet born