Snow thickened until the world forgot its edges. Ziyan's camp crouched in the ruin of what had been fields, the ground black with ash and half-frozen grain. Men crouched around dull fires, eating in silence, spears balanced across their knees like promises they were too tired to break. The wind carried the smell of iron from the north. When the scout finally returned, horse foam-streaked and eyes wild, no one needed to ask what he had seen.
"Xia," he rasped. "Banners on the horizon. Red and black."
Feiyan brushed frost from her sleeve. "They move faster than pride."
Wei rose, already checking the edge of his spear. "And Zhang?"
"Closing his gates," Shuye said. "He'll fight anyone who reminds him the Emperor is gone."
Ziyan stood by the edge of the camp, snow whispering against her boots. The capital's smoke was still visible—thin threads of gray that refused to die. "He won't hide behind walls," she said. "Not yet. He'll come out swinging to prove he still commands something."
Li Qiang's jaw tightened. "Then let him come. We'll prove the opposite."
They rode before dawn, the air sharp enough to cut the throat of any word not worth saying. The river was half-ice, half-mud, its banks littered with frozen bodies from the last battle. Men of Qi, men of Xia, no difference now but the angle at which they fell. Ziyan stopped at the ridge overlooking the plain. On one side, Zhang's banners gathered like mold—dense, choking. On the other, the red glare of Xia's campfires, a sea waiting to swallow what remained of Qi.
Between them, only her.
Feiyan approached, face wind-burnt and calm. "If you had run when I told you years ago, you could have been safe in Nan Shu."
"If I had run," Ziyan said, "there would be no one left to burn."
Feiyan gave a small, rough laugh. "Then let's make the fire worth something."
The horns began—first from the west, then echoing from the east. Zhang's cavalry surged down the slope, armor polished, bright enough to pretend this was still glory. Ziyan's archers loosed in perfect silence. Arrows found throats before trumpets finished their breath. Horses plunged into the river mud, screaming. Wei's line met them with a crash that turned sound into a physical thing.
Feiyan slipped through the chaos, cutting at stirrups, slicing the cords that held ranks together. Shuye's jars went up one by one, thunder under snow. Smoke rolled low, blue-white, curling like the ghost of Ye Cheng. Li Qiang's sword traced arcs that left no room for doubt.
Zhang appeared at last—on a black stallion, crimson cloak over steel, his eyes fever-bright. He looked across the field and found her, standing calm amid ruin. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then his hand lifted, and a thousand men charged.
Ziyan raised her banner—a plain scrap of cloth stitched with a single burning phoenix—and the field erupted.
The clash became a single, enormous heartbeat. Xia's vanguard, seeing weakness, crossed early, arrows darkening the sky. The river broke its thin crust, devouring men in iron. Zhang's forces faltered, trapped between the flood and Ziyan's blades. The smell of pitch and blood replaced the cold.
Ziyan fought on foot. Her sword caught Zhang's men one after another, quick, exact, merciless. When a Xia captain broke through the smoke, she met him blade to blade. His armor was lacquered red, his technique perfect, every movement a lesson written by war itself. For a time they circled, two names the world had not yet decided between. His strike came fast; hers faster. She took him in the throat and let him drop without hatred.
Wei rode past, shouting, "The bridge holds! They can't cross in numbers!"
"Then burn it," she answered. "If Qi must end, let it end on our terms."
Flames leapt from the tarred wood, reflected in the water like twin suns. The snow above melted into steam that clung to skin and armor alike. For a moment the world was nothing but fire and the sound of men remembering they could still choose who they were.
Zhang's horn sounded retreat. He had lost half his line, and the rest wavered. From the far bank, Xia's advance faltered—confused, hungry, too wary to claim victory from ruin. Between the dying fires, soldiers from both sides stared across the river at Ziyan's banner, the phoenix flickering against the sky.
"They'll start calling you something," Feiyan said, voice raw.
Ziyan looked at the burning bridge, at Zhang's army limping back toward the city, at the red horizon where Xia's campfires waited. "Let them," she said. "A name means nothing if the road doesn't lead somewhere."
Wei dismounted beside her, chest heaving. "And where does this road lead?"
Ziyan sheathed her sword. The snow had stopped. Smoke drifted higher, clean and thin. "To the capital," she said. "Zhang built his throne on ashes. I'll show him what rises from them."
Feiyan smiled faintly. "Phoenix, then."
Ziyan didn't answer. She was already walking toward the river, toward the reflection of fire and sky that waited for her to step through.