Thirty-third day, two hours before moon-set
While the hunting party slept off wine and glory, Shen received a sealed tube from river-patrol scouts: two flat-bottom barges had slipped moorings at Border-Store Fort and vanished downstream, oars muffled.
Tracks on the near bank led into limestone gullies honey-combed with old copper mines—perfect conduit for contraband.
If the grain (and weapons) reached the Wolf passes, border garrisons would starve come first frost.
Shen's decision was whisper-quick: a dozen riders, no banners, no armour that clanked—leave before dawn, return before the prefect's breakfast.
The Volunteers
Yuan stepped forward first, ribs finally closed.
Three scouts raised hands; the fourth was Lan Yue, already tightening her bracer.
Shen's instinct was to refuse—last time she had run toward a ridge-cat; tunnels offered no sky to trust.
But her gaze held the calm she wore before every shot, and he found himself nodding instead of ordering her rear-guard.
He told himself it was strategy, not pulse-race, and turned away before the relief on her face could warm him further.
Approach through Moon-Mist
They left horses two li out, advanced on foot through reed-bed and night-fog.
Limestone cliffs loomed like broken teeth; mine adits gaped black.
Yuan took point; Yue walked second; Shen last—commander's habit: see every blade ahead, guard every back behind.
The air tasted of rust and wet chalk; their breath echoed back as whispers they barely recognised as their own.
Inside the Copper Labyrinth
Old timber props sagged under unseen weight.
Yuan's lantern revealed cart-ruts in the silt—fresh, edges crisp, water still pooling.
They followed, counting side-shafts, chalking arrows so they would not become permanent residents.
Voices drifted—male, northern accent, dice rattling on wood.
Yue signalled: six, maybe seven.
Shen nodded: avoid if possible, capture if necessary, kill only if forced—this was proof-gathering, not vengeance.
The Underground Wharf
They emerged onto a natural quay lit by three iron baskets of river-coal.
Two barges rocked below, tarped crates stacked high.
Labourers rolled barrels labelled "salt fish"; smell was wrong—camphor and millet.
A ledger lay on an upturned crate; Yuan copied columns while Yue crept closer, knife between teeth.
Then fate intervened: a labourer slipped on wet stone, knocked a barrel; lid cracked, golden grain spilled like captive sunlight.
Shouts erupted; crossbows snapped up.
Yue's Tactical Brilliance
Six smugglers, two with repeating bows, all in narrow confines—a death funnel.
Yue did not reach for arrows; instead she kicked the iron brazier, showering coals onto the tarp.
Flames licked; panic flared faster.
She shouted "Fire!" in northern dialect—same tongue the smugglers used—then added "River patrol outside! Drop weapons or burn!"
Smoke blinded; smugglers hesitated between losing cargo or life.
One fired; the bolt hissed past her ear, struck timber.
Shen stepped into lantern-light, voice ringing:
"Surrender and you keep the boats.
Burn and you lose everything."
The ploy worked—greed beat loyalty every time.
Crossbows clattered; hands rose.
The River-Fire Escape
But tarps burned fast; dry timber of old barges caught.
Shen ordered the party to drag two captured smugglers uphill while Yuan severed mooring ropes.
Yue stayed last, using a pole to shove flaming barge into current—a funeral pyre floating away from evidence, drawing attention downstream rather than to the tunnels.
Heat seared her eyebrows; smoke clawed her throat.
As she turned a beam cracked, pinning her ankle.
She bit back a cry, knife flashing to lever wood.
The Rescue
Shen was there before panic rose—how he moved so fast she would never know.
He wedged his sword beneath the beam, heaved; timber lifted enough for her to wrench free.
The sword snapped; he tossed the hilt, hoisted her over shoulder without asking.
She protested—weight, dignity, protocol—all lost in the crackle.
He carried her up the slope, through collapsing props, sparks chasing their heels like playful devils.
Outside, cool night air hit like a slap; they tumbled onto grass, both coughing soot.
The Almost-Kiss
They lay side by side, lungs heaving, moon silvering the smoke plume drifting above the cliffs.
Her hand found his wrist—pulse racing as fast as her own.
He rolled onto an elbow, eyes black in starlight, hair singed at the tips.
One inch closer and their breaths would mingle.
She saw the war inside him—prince, commander, man—each title fencing the next.
Her own heart beat so loudly she feared it would echo off the water.
He lifted a hand to brush soot from her cheek, stopped mid-air, fingers curling into restraint.
Voice hoarse, he whispered:
"Not here.
Not like this."
She answered with the smallest nod—permission to wait, permission to choose.
He helped her sit, fingers lingering one heartbeat longer than duty allowed, then stood to check prisoners—commander mask sliding back into place, but the hand that had nearly touched her stayed clenched at his side as if holding something fragile.
Counting Spoils on the Riverbank
They had captured four smugglers, two repeating crossbows, and—more precious—a sealed tube of messages: route schedules, bribe lists, and a letter bearing Wei's personal seal directing grain to "auxiliary northern labour camps" – code for Wolf scouts.
Yuan wrapped the tube in oil-cloth, grinning through soot.
"Proof enough to hang a magistrate and shame a ministry."
He glanced at Shen, then at Yue, and his grin softened—he had seen the almost-kiss, said nothing, stored it like ammunition of a gentler sort.
The Long Walk to Horses
Shen insisted on supporting her weight despite her protests that the ankle merely throbbed.
After a hundred paces she relented, let his shoulder take half her stride.
Neither spoke; the river beside them murmured approval.
When they reached the horses dawn bled across reeds, painting everything rose and gold—colours too soft for tunnels that had nearly become graves.
He lifted her into saddle; his hands spanned her waist so lightly she felt them long after he let go.
Camp Re-entry – Performance of Normalcy
They arrived before breakfast bugle.
Sentries saw soot-streaked faces and opened mouths; Shen's lifted palm closed them.
Prisoners went to the stockade; evidence to the command tent; Yue to the healer for a wrap of cold comfrey poultice.
She limped, but refused a crutch—weight-bearing healed faster, she claimed.
Shen watched her refusal, expression unreadable, then left to draft the dawn report.
Personal Hour – Cleaning Away Smoke
Behind her tent she poured river-water over her hair; black run-off circled her boots like ink.
Her reflection wavered: eyebrows singed, cheek smudged, eyes wide.
She touched the place he had almost touched, felt warmth rise again.
From her pouch she drew the moon-pearl from the festival—still uncracked, still bright.
In its curved surface she saw twin moons: one in sky, one in memory of a hand suspended mid-air.
She tucked it back, tied her hair warrior-tight, and told the reflection:
"Next time choose the moment, not the near-death."
The reflection answered nothing, but colour lingered on her cheekbones even after soot washed away.
Command Tent – Three Words Unwritten
Inside, Shen dipped brush, started the official account, then found himself staring at blank space where three personal words kept trying to crawl between lines of tactical prose.
He set the brush down, pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum as if to quiet the ache behind bone.
Outside, bugle called morning drill; across the camp a certain archer tested her wrapped ankle by pacing the picket line—seven steps, turn, seven steps—each footfall echoing inside his chest like distant drums announcing a festival still weeks away.
He picked up the brush again, wrote faster, letting duty outrun heartbeat—for now.