She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Three more shapes detached themselves from the shadows. One, a boy of perhaps sixteen, face pinched. Another, older, with the look of a man who had once been sturdy and had been whittled down by hard winters and harder taxes. The third was a woman with a shawl pulled tight, her eyes bright and defiant.
"They were only watching," Lin Tao said quickly. "They weren't—"
"Quiet," Feiyan said.
Ziyan stood. Snow crunched under her boots. "You planned to open a gate," she said. "You planned to let an army into a city that has just barely learned it can stand. You planned to buy one street's survival with ten others' blood."
The woman spat in the snow. "Our blood's been buying lords' seats for years," she said. "What's the difference?"
"There should have been," Ziyan said softly. "That's why I killed the man on that throne." She met the woman's gaze. "I won't pretend I can fill every bowl. I won't pretend this road feeds everyone it should. But if I allow this gate to open, I make every oath I've made worth less than dust."
"So you'll kill us," the woman said.
Li Qiang shifted. Wei went very still. Feiyan's fingers whitened on her knife hilt.
Ziyan shook her head. "No."
They stared.
Feiyan's voice came low, dangerous. "You swore—"
"I swore betrayal would not go unanswered," Ziyan said. "And it will not." She looked back to Lin Tao. "Your street will not eat Xia's grain."
His eyes squeezed shut.
"But neither will I feed it to wolves," she went on. "Wei."
Wei straightened. "Yes."
"Take twenty men to Narrow Pot Alley," she said. "Knock on every door. Bring the sick to the temple. Bring the children to the granaries. Take what stores we set aside for council feasts that will not happen, and give them to that quarter instead. Quietly."
He stared, then barked a short, almost incredulous laugh. "Yes, my lady."
"And them?" Feiyan asked.
Ziyan looked again at Lin Tao and the others. "They will come with us," she said. "To the square at dawn. They will stand in front of the council and say aloud what they almost did. Every man and woman who walks these streets will see the bargain Xia offered. And they will hear why it was refused."
"And after?" Feiyan pressed.
"After," Ziyan said, "they will work. On the walls. In the kitchens. In the snow digging latrines so sickness does not do Xia's work for them. Under watch. Under oath. If any of them steps toward another gate without my leave…" Her gaze hardened. "I will remember my promise."
The woman's chin lifted. "We'll be marked," she said. "Everyone will know. Our children—"
"Our children already live in a city men keep trying to sell," Ziyan said. "Let them at least see that some sales are stopped."
She signaled. Li Qiang moved to cut Lin Tao free, leaving his wrists bound but loosening the spear pinning his cloak. Wei pulled his weapon free from the snow. The four would-be betrayers huddled together, cold and terrified and something else—humiliation, perhaps, or a rough, raw anger that had not yet decided where to point itself.
Feiyan walked beside Ziyan as they turned back toward the inner streets. Her voice was flint striking flint. "You are playing a thin game."
"I know," Ziyan said.
"You let this spread," Feiyan went on, "and others will think they can try the same. Test how far you bend."
"Good," Ziyan replied. "Let them learn exactly where I stop."
Feiyan was silent for a few breaths. Then: "You're softer than you let them think."
"No," Ziyan said quietly. "I'm cruel in ways they don't understand yet."
Feiyan's mouth curved faintly. "That's closer."
Dawn came crabbed and reluctant, sky the color of old bruises. In the square before the palace, soldiers and citizens gathered, breath steaming, shoulders hunched against cold and expectation. The story had already flown ahead of its subjects. Eyes followed Ziyan as she led Lin Tao and the others to the steps.
She did not stand above them. She stood beside them.
"This city will be tempted," she said, voice carrying across the packed bodies. "Again and again. Gold. Grain. Titles. Promises. You will be told that if you bend today, your children will stand straighter tomorrow." She gestured to the four. "These came close to believing it."
A low murmur, anger and pity twisted together.
"They are not demons," Ziyan said. "They are hungry. They are afraid. As you are. As I am. But I will tell you this once and only once: if we sell each other to survive one more winter, we will never see spring. Xia will not stop at the gate it buys. No conqueror ever has."
Lin Tao's throat bobbed. To his credit, he spoke before she had to prod him. "They promised to spare us," he said, voice shaking. "Just our street. If we helped. I thought…" He swallowed. "I thought my children deserved to live."
"They do," Ziyan said. "So do the children in the streets beyond yours. That is why the gate stayed closed."
Silence again. Then a woman near the front—apron stained, hair tied with fraying cloth—called out, "And what do we eat, then?"
Ziyan met her eyes. "What I eat," she said. "What the lords eat. What the scribes eat. If there is one bowl, it will be shared. If there is nothing, we starve together. That is the only rule that makes this road worth walking."
It was not a promise of comfort. It was worse and better than that.
The crowd shifted. Some faces hardened with respect. Others with doubt. A few with anger that had yet to find new language. But no one shouted surrender. No one called for Xia's crown.
Feiyan exhaled softly. "You just tied yourself to every empty pantry in this city."
"Yes," Ziyan said. "Now if I fail, they'll know exactly whose neck to reach for."
"Reassuring," Feiyan murmured.
By midday, Xia's drums moved closer.
They came with banners high, siege towers now fully raised, the creak of wood and leather underscoring the low chant of marching feet. From the walls, it looked like a moving forest, straight and sure.
Ziyan stood at the north gate, armor buckled, sword hanging easy at her side. The blue silk at her wrist had darkened with melted snow. Shuye waited near the stairs, jar cradled as if he carried a child. Wei rolled his shoulders, spear in hand, eyes bright and feral. Li Qiang's expression had settled into the stillness of men who know exactly what can be lost.
Feiyan's shadow leaned against the merlon. "They send heralds," she said.
A small mounted party detached itself from Xia's front, flag of truce raised. They stopped just within earshot.
"Lady Li Ziyan," the front rider called. His accent carried the east, his breath clouding. "By command of General Ren, last offer: open your gates, lay down arms, accept the seal of Xia, and your people will live."
The wall held its breath.
Ziyan did not step up onto the parapet this time. She stayed where she was and let her voice travel up, then down, then out.
"Tell General Ren," she answered, "that this city has chosen its road. If he wishes to walk it as a neighbor, I will meet him at its crossroads. If he wishes to pave it with our bones, he can try."
The herald hesitated. "You refuse terms?"
"I offer different terms," Ziyan said. "Withdraw one day's march. Send envoys with no army at their back. We will speak as nations, not butcher and butchered."
From the far ranks, a horse shifted, metal glinting. The herald's jaw tightened. "Xia does not bargain from weakness."
"Nor do I," Ziyan said.
He wheeled his horse. The small party rode back. A long pause followed, like the intake of breath before a shout.
Feiyan's fingers brushed the hilt at her hip. "And now?"
Ziyan watched as Xia's front ranks shifted, shields aligning, ladders brought forward. "Now," she said, "they test whether this road can hold."
The first volley of arrows arced up, dark against the bruised sky.
Ziyan lifted her blade. On the wall, bows rose to meet them. In the square behind, Lin Tao's children clutched still-warm bread with hands that trembled from more than cold.
Betrayal had taken its last easy step. From here on, every choice would be harder, every cost more dear.
Ziyan set her foot on the worn stone and felt, for the first time, not just the weight of the city, but the faint, stubborn push of it back.
"Hold," she said.
The road answered with steel.