The courier reached the ridge at false dawn—one horse foundering, one rider frost-lipped—bearing a tube sealed not with Shen's black wax but with the silver wolf of High Command, the council of clan-chiefs who had never loved Shen's "independent accounting."
Inside: a single sheet, ink still wet, countersigned by three stamp-seals Shen could not overrule.
"Commander Yulan, Black Banner Left Wing, is hereby detached for special duty.
Proceed south-west to the Ember-Gate pass, assume joint command with White Tiger Brigade, secure the iron-road bridge before thaw.
Effective immediately.
Shen of Ravens will render full cooperation."
No greeting, no explanation, no mention of the ridge they had just bled to rent.
The parchment might as well have been a blade slipped between ribs while armour was unbuckled.
Yulan arrived from the palisade fire where he'd been boiling pine-resin for ballista strings, cheeks soot-streaked, laughter half-formed.
He read, expression folding inward like a banner in sudden wind.
Shen stood apart, arms behind back, face the same stone that had watched salt circles and peach songs—but Lan saw the small muscle jumping at the hinge of his jaw.
For a moment no one spoke; the ridge itself seemed to listen.
Then Yulan smiled—the same reckless grin that had once stolen temple bells for a bet—and bowed, fist to heart.
"Orders are orders, my prince. I'll take the vanguard at dusk."
Voice steady, but his eyes flicked to Lan—a glance too quick for courtesy, too long for indifference.
Lan felt the air shift—jealousy not yet named, only smelled, like ozone before lightning.
She stepped forward. "The pass is four days hard march. Wei Lian's cavalry patrol the southern loop. You'll need scouts who know the ice rivers."
Yulan's grin softened. "I hoped you'd volunteer."
Shen's voice cut, flat as drawn iron. "Scout-Captain Lan retains ridge command. I assign Hessa's platoon instead."
No louder than necessary, but the finality of a door closing on fingers.
Yulan's brows rose a fraction. "Of course. The ridge is… irreplaceable."
He rolled the parchment, tucked it beneath gorget, and walked off shouting for horse-lines, leaving silence that rang louder than trebuchets.
What Was Not Said
Lan waited until Shen moved to the ballista platform overlooking the valley—a perch too narrow for eavesdroppers, too exposed for long confessions.
Snow had begun again, soft as moth wings.
"You removed me," she said quietly. "Why?"
He kept his gaze on Wei Lian's distant campfires. "Because orders are blades, and that blade was aimed at you."
A breath. "Yulan would ask you to ride with him. I would refuse. He would insist. The council would hear of it. Jealousy is a cheaper charge than incompetence—they'd cashier you before spring."
Lan's throat tightened. "So you send him alone, and make him the exile instead."
"Better one man angry than one woman destroyed."
He turned finally, eyes storm-coloured. "And yes—I am jealous. Of the road, of the sound your laugh makes when he causes it, of every mile you might ride that I cannot see."
Spoken without flourish, a ledger balanced in blood and truth.
She wanted to answer—to confess the peach, the ledge, the unfinished song—but a shout rose from the slope below: Yulan's company forming column, horses stamping, equipment rattling like iron dice.
Shen extended his hand—not for oath, only for touch.
She laid her fingers across the stitched wound; he closed them, warmth bleeding through wool.
No promise, only acknowledgment: two debts, one ledger, zero interest forgiven.
The Parting
An hour later the ridge gate opened again—this time to let friends out, not enemies in.
Yulan sat his bay charger, helm crested with raven feathers he had won dicing with her the first winter.
He saluted Shen, then angled his mount toward Lan.
"Keep him from doing anything heroic," he said low. "And keep a cup warm for me—I intend to collect when the bridges are ours."
Eyes glittering—challenge, not farewell.
Lan offered her fist; he tapped it with gloved knuckles, then spurred away before emotion could outrun discipline.
Seventy riders followed, black cloaks soon indistinguishable from falling snow—a wedge of night excised from the banner, leaving a hollow that pulsed.
Shen watched until the last hoof-print blurred.
Without looking at her he said, "Now the ridge is ours alone. Defend it with half the strength, twice the resolve, and every secret we cannot name."
Lan felt the cedar harp against her spine vibrate—six strings humming with hoof-beats moving away, carrying jealousy south-west like a courier no seal could recall.
Above, clouds parted; a single star pricked through, sharp as an unpaid bill.
She tightened her cloak, turned back to the palisade, and began counting ballista bolts—each one interest on a loan the night would soon collect.