Snow still clung to the rooftops when dawn came again, slow and reluctant. The fires in the lower wards had dulled to smoke, curling through the ruined courtyards like incense at a funeral that refused to end. The scent of cedar and ash lingered everywhere—familiar, almost comforting in its persistence.
Ziyan stood at the window of the old council chamber, staring at the city below. From this height, Qi no longer looked like a kingdom—it looked like a scar. But scars, she thought, at least proved survival.
Feiyan sat on the table, cleaning her blade with methodical care. "The Xia envoy waits," she said. "He has asked three times whether you will receive him in the throne room."
"There is no throne," Ziyan said.
"That's what I told him," Feiyan said lightly. "He didn't like it."
Ziyan's reflection caught the faint morning light on the glass. "Good. Let him learn what liking means in a burned empire."
Li Qiang entered then, his armor polished but dented, a soldier's truth more than a court's display. "The council is gathered," he said. "Han, Zhao, and the remnants of Meng's men. They wait in the southern hall."
Wei followed, leaning on his spear like it was an old friend. "They're restless. Too many generals with empty bellies and full opinions."
Ziyan turned from the window. "Then let's feed them something worth chewing on."
The southern hall still bore the marks of battle: cracks spidered through the marble, soot smudged the tapestries, and the great map of the provinces had been torn where Zhang's soldiers once nailed orders to it. The lords and captains gathered around the long table, eyes cautious, hungry, and uncertain.
At the far end stood the Xia envoy—a man of middle years, cloaked in silver-grey, with the wolf seal of his general stitched at the throat. His posture was precise, his smile controlled.
"Lady Li," he said, bowing just enough to suggest courtesy without surrender. "I bring word from General Ren of Xia. He bids peace to those who survive, and strength to those wise enough to bend before it."
Feiyan snorted softly, but Ziyan did not move. "Peace," she repeated. "The same peace Xia offered to Ye Cheng before burning its granaries?"
The envoy inclined his head. "Ye Cheng resisted. You, it seems, have not."
A murmur rippled through the Qi captains. Wei's hand drifted toward his spear.
Ziyan walked forward until she stood opposite the envoy, the shattered map between them. "You've come to claim a crown," she said.
"I've come," the envoy corrected, "to offer one. The Emperor of Xia proposes union. Your army becomes his; your land, his southern province. In return, you retain stewardship—your title, your influence, your peace. No more war."
Feiyan rose from the table in one smooth motion. "No more freedom either."
The envoy smiled without warmth. "Freedom is a luxury empires cannot afford."
Ziyan studied him. "And yet you stand in a city raised from rebellion."
"Raised," he said, "and dying. The question is whether you will let it die quietly or make it suffer further."
Silence filled the hall. Snow drifted through the cracked ceiling, each flake landing softly on the burned table. Ziyan looked at it until it melted into nothing.
Then she spoke. "Qi will not be a province."
The envoy's smile thinned. "Then it will be a memory."
She met his gaze, unflinching. "So will Xia."
The air between them tightened.
Feiyan's hand brushed her dagger. Li Qiang's voice broke the stillness. "Our people need grain before glory. If war returns, we'll lose what little we've rebuilt."
Ziyan turned to him, her expression gentler than her words. "And if we kneel now, we'll feed our children to their borders instead."
The envoy's voice remained calm. "You cannot fight two wars, Lady Li. Zhang's remnants in the west, Xia's armies in the east. You are one woman."
Ziyan stepped closer, close enough for him to see the soot on her skin, the faint scar along her cheek. "One woman burned an empire already," she said. "If you doubt me, ask the ashes."
The envoy's composure cracked—just slightly, just enough for Feiyan to see it and smile.
He straightened, gathering his cloak. "Then you choose war."
"I choose truth," Ziyan said. "And if the truth burns, then we burn standing."
He bowed again, lower this time, the motion sharp as insult. "Then Xia will answer in kind."
When he was gone, the silence returned, heavier now.
Han spoke first, gruff and tired. "He'll send word before sunset. They'll march within a week."
Ziyan looked over the map's ruins. "Then we have six days to make this city more than ruins."
Feiyan tilted her head. "And after that?"
Ziyan touched the broken gold line marking the river's bend—the place where her first rebellion began. "After that," she said, "we build something that doesn't need crowns to stand."
That night, she sat alone on the palace balcony. The fires below had dwindled to embers, but their light still marked the horizon.
Feiyan joined her quietly. "When this is done," she said, "what will you call it? This road you mean to build?"
Ziyan thought for a long time. "Not a kingdom," she said. "Not a republic, either. Just a place where no one is born beneath anyone else."
Feiyan smiled faintly. "That sounds like a rebellion that never ends."
Ziyan nodded. "Then let it never end."
From the east, faint and distant, came the first roll of drums—Xia's. Their sound carried through the night like thunder too far away to see, but close enough to feel.
Feiyan drew her cloak tighter. "They're coming."
"Yes," Ziyan said, eyes on the dark horizon where dawn would soon rise again. "So are we."
And the wind, cold and certain, carried the scent of ash and iron toward the border where two empires would soon collide—and one woman would decide what rose from the ruins.