The Imperial Throne was not the comfortable seat of power outsiders imagined.
A long tenure brought aching backs and throbbing shoulders. Especially now, listening to the Board of War and the Board of Revenue squabble fiercely over a mere tenth of the army's grain—the Emperor felt less like a sovereign and more like a weary man cemented to a block of cold stone, unable to stir or dismount.
A stack of documents lay on the imperial desk. Several stood out immediately: the paper felt rougher, the ink thicker and starker, and the strokes were sharp and forceful, utterly unlike the polished calligraphy of the court scholars.
These were the military dispatches from the frontier.
The cover was simply marked: "Urgent Report from the Địnhyuăn Command."
The signature held just two characters—Shěn Xī (沈溪).
The Emperor's gaze rested on that name for a long beat.
The Shěn family.
That surname had flown on the war banners of the empire's frontier for three generations before he had even taken the throne.
The Old Marquess of Địnhyuăn, Shěn Xiāojiāng, had been the sharpest sword in the late Emperor's hand during the dynasty's founding; his eldest son, Shěn Jìngshān, fell in the North's first major defeat; the second son, Shěn Chéngyuăn, never recovered from his war wounds and faded away within a few years.
By the time the Emperor ascended, the Old Marquess was too frail to hold a saber, leaving only a young heir, Shěn Huái, and a granddaughter, Shěn Xī, who was not yet of age.
"One pen, one blade."
A court minister had once leaned close to him in the Grand Secretariat, whispering, "Should these two mature, they will be indispensable arms to Your Majesty."
Another cautioned: "Your Majesty, the Shěn family's influence is vast. Prudence is required.
The Emperor had merely offered a noncommittal smile.
He remembered clearly that it was the Old Marquess and his sons who had held the northern line. Without their sacrifice, the dynasty itself might never have been won. The Imperial House, he believed, must honor past debts as well as present loyalties.
But he also knew the peril of a subject who held both the people's love and the army's absolute allegiance.
His solution was a move he considered balanced:
—Shěn Huái stayed in the capital, inheriting the Marquessate of Địnhyuăn, and was placed in the Grand Secretariat to act as a civil check.
—Shěn Xī was dispatched to the border, training with the troops and slowly taking command of the family's old regiments.
"The brother holds the court, the sister holds the line."
It was designed to feed the Shěn family's honor while strategically fracturing their power base.
The Emperor considered it the most stable, least cruel move on the geopolitical board.
Time proved his wisdom: Shěn Huái moved through the court with skillful control, a hidden ruthlessness in his smile, yet his loyalty was clearly defined—it ended at the border, with his sister.
And Shěn Xī…
The Emperor unfurled the latest dispatch, his eyes skimming the heavy script:
The enemy laid an ambush in Ghost Wail Valley, intending to sever our advance. Casualties are heavy among our units, but the will to fight remains intact. Though unworthy, your servant pledges this body to keep the border whole.
The term "your servant" (wēichén) was sharp, yet carried a strange, unyielding defiance.
The Emperor's brows furrowed.
Shěn Xī's visits to the palace had been rare.
The first time, she was a small girl with twin knots in her hair, accompanying her father for a court ceremony. She stood silently, her eyes unnervingly bright and watchful.
The second was when the Old Marquess was gravely ill and asked to retire. She appeared then in military dress, a short saber at her hip, and bowed with an even sharper edge to her gaze.
He recalled his question: "With the younger generation of the Shěn clan so few, can General Shěn, a woman, truly hold the front?"
She bowed deeply, her reply absolute: "The Shěn family defends this border for Your Majesty, generation upon generation. If a son may die in battle, so may a daughter. If Your Majesty finds no one in the Shěn family worthy, then reclaim the Marquess seal, and let the name 'Dìngyuăn' be forgotten."
A collective intake of breath swept through the hall of old ministers.
The Emperor merely laughed: "When did I ever suggest the Shěn family was unworthy?"
He knew she was forcing his hand: either endorse her, or dismiss the entire clan. She offered no third way.
A personality like hers would be disruptive in the capital; on the frontier, however, it was perfect.
In the ensuing years, reports of success flowed continuously from the border army. The name "Shěn Xī" steadily climbed the ranks—from minor officer to deputy commander, and finally, to the true commander-in-chief. The Board of War sent endless congratulations, the troops revered her, and even enemy intelligence reports mentioned her name with increasing frequency.
Yet, court rumors grew more anxious.
Some memorials offered cautious warnings:
The Border Commander is young and headstrong. Too long in the military camps, I fear, she may disregard the rituals of the court.
Others were more blunt:
The Marquess of Địnhyuăn's sister has gained too much merit. The hearts of the troops are bound to her. Your Majesty should take precautions early.
The Emperor took note but was unhurried.
He knew their fear: the army rejecting civil authority, the Shěn family becoming another unmanageable power bloc, the military's shadow falling over the civil court.
But he also knew that the border could not be destabilized.
It was not the simple matter the scholars imagined. It was a razor's edge, a constant gale, a place where the slightest mistake in an imperial order could mean a mountain of corpses. Those capable of holding that line could be counted on one hand.
Removing Shěn Xī without an immediate replacement was unthinkable.
Besides, the Shěn family had paid an enormous price already.
He thought of the past—
The late Emperor, gripping his hand on his deathbed, had said: "The Shěn family is an old retainer, a sword. You must use it, but you must also protect it. If the day comes when you must cut them down, at least… do not strike from behind."
"Do not strike from behind." He had never forgotten it.
The final report from Ghost Wail Valley was gravely delayed.
When it finally arrived, it was a sudden, blood-spattered dispatch. The handwriting, though, was startlingly composed:
The Battle of Ghost Wail Valley has ended. Our army suffered over fifty percent losses.Shěn Xī has fallen in battle. Her body could not be recovered.
It was signed with the name of the new commander.
The Emperor read it, sinking into a long silence. He held the document to the lamplight, turning it over and over, as if to pull some meaning from that bleak line: "Her body could not be recovered."
"Fallen in battle" was not news to him. Since his coronation, countless soldiers, even famous generals, had died on the frontier.
But reading the name "Shěn Xī," a strange, heavy ache settled in his chest.
He remembered the defiant girl in the hall saying, "If a son may die in battle, so may a daughter."
He remembered the composure in her last few reports, always stressing that the line was "secure," never once mentioning her own state.
And he recalled Shěn Huái's barely concealed killing intent when he fought for more supplies in the court, saying, "The border generals' spirits will freeze."
—Another life had been taken from the Shěn family.
He began to understand the true fear of his ministers. It wasn't that the Shěn family was intrinsically dangerous, but that they were profoundly unlike subjects—they were an ancient blade, following its own true north, preferring to shatter than to yield.
Such people were impossible to break, and perilously hard to govern. Used well, they were the nation's heroes; used poorly, they were the seeds of rebellion.
The Emperor lifted his teacup, finding the water stone cold.
"Summon the Marquess of Địnhyuăn," he instructed quietly.
The attendant hesitated: "Your Majesty, should I be informing him that…?"
"Simply have him informed," the Emperor said, closing his eyes. "Shěn family members do not appreciate hearing news of their own deaths from strangers."
The words were almost a sigh, too soft for even him to gauge the emotion.
When Shěn Huái arrived, the Emperor had already folded the battle report away, transcribing only the starkest lines onto a clean sheet—no gore, no detail, just the announcement of "fallen in battle."
He watched the man's face drain of color, then slowly recompose itself.
"Marquess Shěn," the Emperor said softly, "Accept my deepest sympathy."
Shěn Huái kowtowed and replied, "I thank Your Majesty."
In that moment, the Emperor knew a core piece of this man had been ripped out. But he would not fall; he would continue to stand in the court, playing the role of the Marquess of Địnhyuăn.
The Shěn family had no one else.
A feeling of confusing exhaustion settled over the Emperor. In his mind, he sighed toward the distant border—
"Shěn family, I cannot fully repay your debt. Let this game, finally, be considered settled."
The throne remained cold.
But he knew that from this day forward, there would be no woman named Shěn Xī, raising a war-banner and fighting in the snow.