Dawn, thirty-six hours after the council that crowned Shen General of the North.
Frost furred the flagstones; the rising sun turned them into a field of pink mirrors.
The duel that wasn't: Lan Yue stepped onto the parade ground wearing borrowed armour—chest-piece too broad, tassets clacking like wind-chimes.
She had spent the night shortening straps with a dagger, fingers blue.
A crimson scout-scarf fluttered at her throat, the only colour in a square of grey.
Opposite her waited Lieutenant Gao, current commander of forward scouts: tall, laconic, famous for once shooting a goose at three hundred paces through a snowfall.
He saluted, curious rather than angry.
"Regulation says you must beat me, Cadet, not merely match."
"I read the fine print," she answered.
The target frame was ingenious: a line of twelve reed posts, each topped with a walnut; behind every nut hung a bronze gong.
Strike the nut, sound the gong—instant verdict.
The posts stood two horse-lengths apart; servants would jog them in a random zig-zag once the duel began.
Crowd gathered—officers, stable-hands, washer-women, even the fortress goats.
Word had spread: the woman who asked the General for death-duty wanted proof of right.
Shen appeared last, cloak still flecked with map-ink.
He had meant to spend the morning requisitioning grain, but his feet betrayed him.
He took a position beyond the salt-line, arms folded so tightly the mail bruised his forearms.
When Yuan greeted him he answered only with a jerk of the chin.
The adjudicator—a white-bearded major—lifted a red flag.
"Twelve arrows. Most gongs wins. Begin."
Servants started the posts moving; walnuts bobbed like conspirators.
1. Lan nocked, drew, waited—until the walnut crossed the sun-disk. Gong. Cheers.
2. Gao answered; his gong answered hers—echo.
3. She loosed while the post still ran; nut split, gong sang.
4. Gao's fourth: same.
5. wind gusted; she adjusted a finger's breadth, hit.
6. Gao's arrow grazed the bronze rim—clang off-key. Murmurs.
7. Hers sank centre; gong purred.
8. Gao compensated, perfect.
9. she shot through the after-swing of her own scarf-tail; nut powdered. The crowd gasped, then roared.
10. Gao's shaft split her previous arrow still quivering in the post—showmanship.
11. she aimed at Gao's arrow, split it, then carried half into the nut—two gongs in one breath. Silence, then thunder.
12. both drew together; released together; two walnuts spun, two gongs crashed—harmony.
But Lan's arrow had also split Gao's shaft mid-flight, carrying the sundered halves into the target. Impossible—yet the evidence hung quivering.
The major dropped the white flag.
"Cadet Lan Yue—twelve gongs, one miracle. Lieutenant Gao—eleven gongs, one miracle. Regulation satisfied."
Gao laughed—a short, startled bark—and saluted her.
"Scouts are yours, Lieutenant."
He unclasped his silver badge, offered on both palms.
She took it, but lifted it toward the basalt tower where Shen stood.
The gesture asked: Do you confirm?
Shen felt the fortress tilt.
He had come to stop a reckless cadet; he had instead witnessed legend.
Yuan elbowed him: "Say something, cousin. The army is watching."
He strode forward, boots ringing.
The crowd parted like reeds.
When he reached her he saw frost on her lashes, a smear of walnut dust on her cheek.
He wanted to brush it away; he wanted to sign a thousand orders that would place her behind thirty stone walls.
Instead he lifted her salute—fist to heart—and held it one breath longer than regulation.
"Lieutenant Lan, forward scouts fall under my direct command. Report at dusk. Dismissed."
Voice steady, but the hand that dropped to his side trembled inside the gauntlet.
Lan followed him through a side postern.
Stone corridor smelled of oil and iron.
He spun so fast her back kissed the wall; his palms slammed the blocks on either side of her shoulders—cage of mail and want.
"That was magnificent. And suicidal. And—" Words failed.
He rested forehead against the rim of her borrowed helmet.
"—and I am terrified."
She lifted the silver badge between them.
"Fear is a scout's first weapon. Teach me the second."
He laughed—a cracked sound—and stepped back.
"Second is survival. Third is coming back to report. Promise me those, and I will try to survive commanding you."
She tucked the badge inside her collar, next to skin.
"Promise written," she said.
"Seal it at the border."