Naci stands at the water's edge, her new Dragon-Tiger General armor a spectacle of polished steel and gilded menace, seemingly immune to the abrasive wind. She is the fixed point around which the others orbit. With her are Puripal and Dukar, who has just come down from his carriage. The Fourth Prince of Yohazatz is a study in understated power, his travel-worn silks and simple leathers doing nothing to diminish the regal stillness at his core. Dukar, his brother-in-arms, is a banked fire beside him, his hand resting on the head of Notso, the hound who pants with loyal, wheezing enthusiasm.

Shan Xi bows exaggeratedly, her smile a curved and polished weapon. Her eyes, sharp as shards of obsidian, assess the group, lingering on Puripal. "So, the steppe sends its princesses to sea," she says, her voice carrying over the wind. "Tell me, do the bracelets chafe when you draw a bow?"

It is Dukar who answers, his voice a low, flat deadpan, his body shifting a half-pace closer to Puripal in a movement that is both subtle and as definitive as a fortress gate slamming shut. "His bracelets are my problem," he states, his gaze locking with Shan Xi's, an arrow nocked and ready.

Shan Xi's bow deepens, a performance of mock deference. Her polished smile doesn't waver, but a new, glittering amusement now sparks within it. She circles Puripal slowly, her gaze sweeping from his elegantly braided hair, down the fine bones of his face, to the subtle, almost effeminate grace of his hands.

"My apologies," she purrs, her voice a blend of genuine astonishment and wicked delight. "The wind must be stealing the depth from your voice. Or perhaps the steppe sun has polished you to a higher sheen than any man I've ever looted." She stops directly in front of him, ignoring Dukar's simmering presence entirely. "You are telling me, with a straight face, that you are a prince? Not a very, very convincing princess in disguise? I have an eye for these things, you understand. I am a connoisseur of both vineyards, though I vastly prefer the fruit of one."

Puripal meets her scrutiny with an infuriating, placid calm, a single eyebrow arched in mild curiosity. He says nothing, allowing her disbelief to hang in the salty air.

"I have seen men," Shan Xi continues, tapping a finger against her lips. "I have seen men who were more boar than man, and men who were more weasel. I have seen pretty boys who could charm the scales from a fish. But you…" She shakes her head, a genuine laugh escaping her. "You have the kind of beauty that starts wars between scholars and causes seasoned pirates to question their entire understanding of anatomy. Are you sure there hasn't been a clerical error? A mix-up at the royal cradle? Perhaps you had a twin sister, and this is all a delightful case of mistaken identity."

Dukar's jaw tightens. "The only error being made is in your perception," he grinds out, the words low and dangerous.

"Is it?" Shan Xi challenges, finally turning her attention back to Dukar, her eyes alight with triumph. "You claim his bracelets are your problem. A fascinating statement. It implies possession, certainly. But does it confirm manufacturer? I once knew a courtesan in Bo'anem who could throw a dagger straighter than any of my crew and had a more impressive collection of weaponry than most generals. She also had remarkably strong wrists."

Puripal finally speaks, his voice a quiet, melodious baritone that is unmistakably masculine, yet so refined it seems to mock the very concept of gruffness. "I assure you, Captain, my identity is not a subject for debate. Though I am flattered by the thoroughness of your inspection."

"Flattered?" Shan Xi cackles. "My boy, I am doing you a service! This is a vital strategic assessment. Morale, you see. My crew is mostly women who have developed a healthy distrust of anything in trousers. Your presence could be disruptive. Or immensely inspirational. I need to know which category you fall into before I allow you on my ship. For the sake of operational cohesion, you understand." She leans in conspiratorially. "A simple consultation. Off the records. I am an expert in these matters. A brief, private interview in my quarters should settle it."

Dukar takes a full step forward now, placing himself squarely between Shan Xi and Puripal. The air crackles. "The inspection is over," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries more threat than a shout. "You will address the Khan Regent of the Yohazatz with the respect his title demands, or you will find your expert understanding of anatomy tested in ways you never imagined."

The tension is broken, or perhaps amplified, by Ta, who is already on his back in the shingle, allowing Notso to slobber joyously over his face. "A heroic death!" Ta proclaims, ruffling the dog's fur. "Tell them I fell in battle! I appoint myself Deputy Minister of Dogs!" Notso wheezes his approval.

Naci lets the moment hang, a strategist allowing the pieces to settle into their new alignment. "The map is changing," she begins, her voice cutting through the comedy. "We strike not as scattered rebels, but as a coordinated storm." She outlines the plan with the clarity of a general who has already won the battle in her mind. Puripal, Dukar, Ta, the Yohazatz raiders, along with Temej and his eagles, and the engineer Sen, will embark with Shan Xi.

It is then that Lizi, Shan Xi's second-in-command, sneaks down the gangway, her eyes scanning the Tepr party with a hope she tries to disguise as casual interest. "Where is Lanau?" she asks, her gaze finally settling on Temej.

"She is a shaman now. She has new duties." Temej says.

Lizi's bright grin collapses. She masks the hurt by snapping a sloppy salute with the deck broom she's holding. "Understood," she mutters, turning away. "I will bully the sea instead."

The transition from solid land to the shifting deck of the Red Cliff Survivor feels like stepping into another realm. The air changes, smelling of tar, salted timber, and a faint, lingering scent of gunpowder. The contingent boards with a mixture of steppe-warrior swagger and natural sea-leg caution. Puripal, his gaze taking in the crowded deck, the rigging like a complex web against the sky, and the mass of warriors still on the beach, turns to Shan Xi with polite inquiry.

"A formidable vessel, Captain," he says, his voice calm. "But I must confess to a logistical concern. Are we all expected to berth upon this single junk?"

Shan Xi's answer is a razor-smile. She doesn't look at him, instead raising her voice to where Lizi is pointedly attacking a nonexistent spot on the deck with her broom. "Lizi! The sky looks too clear. It offends me. Remind it who we are."

Lizi's hurt vanishes, replaced by a feral grin. She drops the broom and, with a flint and steel produced from a pocket, touches a flame to a short, fat tube lashed to the rail. With a sharp crack-hiss, a projectile screams into the sky, a single red star that bursts against the grey canvas of the fogbank hanging a quarter-mile out.

For a heartbeat, there is only the sound of the sea. Then, as if the fog itself is giving birth, shapes begin to emerge. Three more junks, larger and even more heavily armed than the Survivor, glide silently from the mist. Their sails are patched with a hundred different shades of cloth, their rails lined with faces as hard and varied as the stones on a beach. Shan Xi spreads her arms wide, the pirate queen unveiling her true power.

"You stand upon the Red Cliff Survivor," she announces, her voice ringing with pride. "And this," she gestures to the newly arrived fleet, "is the Blood Lotus. We do not travel single."

No sooner have the Yohazatz raiders begun to stream aboard the other vessels than the crew of the Survivor springs into action. This is not a welcoming party; it is an assimilation. A wiry woman with a face like a clenched fist shoves a coil of rope into a bewildered steppe warrior's hands. "You look tall. The foresail line needs tending. Pull when the red flag goes up, not before." Another pirate presses a bucket into the arms of another. "Bilge. Third deck. The pump is your friend. Do not argue with it."

Dukar's eyes narrow, his protective instincts flaring at this treatment. He takes a sharp breath, ready to intercede, but Puripal's hand rests lightly on his arm.

"They are our hosts, Dukar," Puripal says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And this is their home, not a roadside inn. We follow their rules, even if those rules involve bilge water." He meets Dukar's frustrated gaze steadily. "We are guests who wish to become allies. We will earn our passage."

Shan Xi watches this exchange, her head tilted. She drifts closer to Puripal, her earlier teasing replaced by a spark of genuine curiosity. "You are a fascinating creature," she murmurs, low enough so only he can hear. "I have to know. What kind of spell did that wind-swept Khan of Tepr use to convince a man of your… particular refinement… to climb aboard a pirate ship bound for a warzone? Did she promise you a throne? A chest of jewels? Your weight in rare spices?"

Puripal lets out a soft, weary sigh, his eyes drifting past her to where Dukar is now, reluctantly, showing a young warrior how to properly hold a swabbing deck. A faint, unreadable smile touches his lips. "Nothing so grand, I am afraid," he replies, his voice equally quiet. "I find I am simply… easily convinced by certain kinds of stubbornness."

While this quiet diplomacy unfolds, other, louder alliances are forming. Temej, having secured his eagle's perch, finds himself next to Dukar near the rail. The two men stand in silence for a moment, watching the chaotic integration.

"Your Khan has a steady hand," Temej observes, his gaze on Puripal.

Dukar grunts, his arms crossed. "He sees paths others don't. It is… inconvenient." A pause. "Your eagles. They will be our eyes?"

"They see everything," Temej confirms. "The trick is getting them to tell you about it."

Meanwhile, near the ship's wheel, a partnership of pure, unadulterated chaos is being forged. Sen is enthusiastically explaining the schematic for a spring-loaded grapnel to Ta, who is listening with the rapt attention of a scholar.

"—and so the counterweight here," Sen says, jabbing a finger at a complex drawing, "launches the hook here with enough force to embed it in an oak beam! Probably!"

Ta's eyes are wide with delight. "Magnificent! We could use it to steal banners! Or dinner from the galley of another ship! The tactical applications are endless!"

"Precisely!" Sen beams, clapping him on the shoulder. "You understand! Most people just complain about the potential for 'uncontrolled rotational velocity.'"

...

The inner-city detention courtyard is a masterpiece of psychological torment. It is not a dungeon, but a place of exquisite beauty, a small, square garden where peach trees shower pink blossoms onto raked white sand. The air is thick with the cloying sweetness of the flowers, a scent that does not quite mask the underlying note of damp stone and despair. Here, beneath the languidly falling petals, Fol, Jinhuang, and Meicao sit, bound with tightly-woven cords of blue silk that bite deep into their wrists and ankles. They are arranged almost artistically, like three contrasting sculptures in a gallery of the condemned.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Jinhuang spits a crimson glob of blood onto the pristine sand, her face a mask of theatrical fury. "If this is the best rope the empire can afford," she calls out to no one in particular, her voice hoarse but clear, "then no wonder the taxes are so high! I demand an upgrade! Something with a bit of sheen, perhaps embroidered with my family crest!"

Fol is a statue of stoic endurance, his breathing deep and measured, his eyes closed as if in meditation. He absorbs the insult of his captivity, storing it as potential energy. Meicao, meanwhile, is utterly still. Her eyes, once clouded with amnesia, are now clear and depthless, a mountain lake on a windless day. She does not struggle; she simply observes, her body remembering older, sharper binds.

Their arrest for the "attempt on Maid Kexing" is a fiction so transparent it becomes a greater insult than a genuine accusation. It is a message, a holding action.

The message is being composed in the adjacent study of Prime Minister Sima. Paper screens diffuse the afternoon light, painting everything in soft, monochrome tones. The only sounds are the whisper of a single leaf skittering across the Quiet Garden's pond outside and the soft clack of xiangqi pieces meeting the lacquered board.

Sima moves a black chariot with a slender, unadorned hand. His voice is as cool and calm as the water in the garden. "The horse is a noble piece, San Lian. Agile, unpredictable. But it cannot jump rivers without bridges. Why, then, are your horses so determined to drown themselves on the far bank?"

Across the board, San Lian feels a bead of sweat trace a path from his temple to his jaw. He parries with a well-worn proverb, advancing a cannon as a feint. "A general who does not risk his cavalry never wins the war, Prime Minister."

"A general who mistakes the game for the war has already lost," Sima counters, not by capturing the cannon, but by sliding his own chariot into a quiet, seemingly irrelevant file. It is a move that makes no immediate sense, yet suddenly constricts the entire board.

"The ferry at Three Willows Crossing," Sima begins, not looking up from the board. "A considerable bribe was paid to hasten its departure. A clumsy expense. The current there is treacherous after the spring rains; haste costs more than silver."

San Lian attempts a smile. "Even the empire cannot command the rivers to flow slower, Prime Minister."

"No. But we can account for the flow. And for the messengers who are not paid upon delivery, but upon their return." Sima lifts his gaze, and his eyes are like chips of flint. "It creates a… hesitancy. A delay in the rhythm of information. It is a syncopation that I find distinctly unpleasant."

He moves an advisor, a seemingly defensive play. "Then there is the ink used in the ledger of the 'Laughing Carp' inn. A particular formulation, from a specific artisan in the western quarter. It never quite dries. It smudges. It tells stories on the page long after the words are written."

San Lian feels the walls of the elegant room pressing in. He answers with silences, hoping his eloquence in stillness will be more misleading than any lie.

"You are a poet of the unsaid, San Lian," Sima murmurs. "But silence, too, has a grammar. And yours is now perfectly legible."

The endgame arrives with terrifying swiftness. Sima sacrifices a horse, leaving it exposed to San Lian's cannon. It is a blatant, almost insulting trap. San Lian knows it is a trap. But he is out of safe squares, out of clever proverbs. He must choose: save his king or save his advisor—preserve his position or his dignity.

He chooses dignity. He takes the horse.

It is the final, fatal mistake. Sima's previously quiet chariot slides forward, and with the softest of clicks, it rests beside San Lian's general. "Checkmate," Sima says, the word no louder than a sigh. "It is not the end, you understand. It is merely the record. The official conclusion to a sequence of events that concluded some time ago."

As if summoned by the finality of the word, two guards step from behind the paper screens. They had been there all along, their presence absorbed into the geometry of the room.

San Lian looks from the board to Sima's impassive face. He understands. He rises, his body feeling ancient, and offers a deep, formal bow to the Prime Minister—a tribute to the inevitability of systems.

As he is led from the study, back through the courtyard where his agents are bound, Jinhuang leans against her silken cords, a bloody grin on her face. "Old man," she calls out, her voice echoing in the perfumed air. "I thought you'd last a little longer. I had a bet going with the stoic one."

San Lian pauses, meeting her fierce gaze. For a moment, the polished courtier falls away, and the tired, dedicated spymaster looks out. His answering smile is a thing of ruined grace.

The heavy wooden door to the outer corridor closes with a solid, final thud. The garden is quiet again, save for the whisper of falling blossoms. The three prisoners are left in their beautiful cage. Fol opens his eyes, looking at the spot where San Lian stood. Jinhuang's bravado falters for a single, unguarded moment, her lower lip trembling before she bites it still. And Meicao, her assassin's memory fully restored, watches the door, her mind already calculating the weight of the wood, the strength of the hinges, and the rhythm of the guards' footsteps beyond. The garden keeps breathing, but the air has turned to glass.

...

In a tavern called The Gilded Shell, a low-ceilinged den where the sawdust on the floor is permanently damp and the clientele have eyes that reflect the candlelight like wary animals. Meice slaps two clay cups onto a stained table and produces a slender ceramic flask. "This," she announces, "is truth water. The Imperial City pastime. You sip it—like reading a contract you fully intend to break."

Amar eyes the clear liquid with suspicion, then with defiance. She takes a gulp, and her body convulses in a fit of coughing that leaves her eyes streaming. Meice throws her head back and laughs, a raw, unlovely sound that cuts through the tavern's murmur. "Too much truth at once? You northerners are all fire and no foundation." But Amar, gasping, reaches for the cup again, her determination outweighing her revulsion. She takes a smaller sip, then another, until the heat in her throat becomes a manageable warmth in her veins.

Amar slams the empty cup down with a little too much force, making the table jump. "Your truth water tastes like a goblin's foot-wrappings," she declares, her voice gaining a heroic, if unsteady, volume. "In the Yohazatz tents, we drink fermented mare's milk that could strip paint from a war-cart! This is... polite."

Meice barks another laugh, refilling both cups with a disturbingly steady hand. "Polite? Girl, this isn't for getting drunk. This is for getting honest. Mare's milk makes you sing sad songs about your horse. This..." she swirls the liquid, "...makes you admit you never liked the damn horse in the first place. It's a tool for demolition, not decoration."

Amar squints at her, the candlelight swimming in her vision. "I like my horse," she slurs, defensively.

"See? It's working already," Meice counters, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "You're confessing to equine sentimentality. A fatal weakness. Next you'll be admitting you enjoy sunsets and unarmed kittens."

"I do not enjoy kittens," Amar retorts, leaning forward and nearly missing the table. "They are... strategically unsound. No tactical discipline." She takes another gulp, shuddering only slightly this time. "Your truth water is lies. I feel... very truthful... and I say it is lies."

"Ah, the paradox phase," Meice nods sagely, as if observing a scientific phenomenon. "First comes the cough, then the defiance, then the philosophical debate with the liquor itself. Next comes the part where you tell me your deepest, darkest secret." She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that is still loud enough to turn a few heads at the next table. "Go on. I'm listening. Is it that you secretly want to be a librarian? That you're afraid of ducks? The truth water demands its price."

Amar points a finger at her, missing Meice's nose by a full inch. "You... are a bad influence. A... corrosive element."

"Finally, a truth we can both agree on!" Meice says, raising her cup in a toast. "To corrosion! The great leveler of empires and livers!" She drains her cup and slams it down, matching Amar's earlier gesture with theatrical precision. "Now, keep up. You're one cup behind. Can't have the northern fire-eye being shown up by a little 'polite' truth, can we?"

Amar, her pride thoroughly engaged, grabs the flask itself. With the intense concentration of a scholar translating a dead language, she pours herself another measure, not spilling a drop. She holds it up, the clear liquid looking deceptively innocent. "This... is not for getting drunk," she announces, parrot-ing Meice's earlier words with solemn gravity.

"Of course not," Meice agrees, her eyes glinting.

"It is for... demolition," Amar continues, her brow furrowed.

"The demolition of what?" Meice prompts, leaning back and crossing her arms.

Amar stares into the cup as if seeking the answer in its depths. "Of... politeness," she decides finally, and downs the shot with a grimace that looks more like a silent roar. She shudders violently, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles are white. When she opens her eyes, they are blazing. "I have demolished it. There is no politeness left. It is gone."

Meice watches her, a look of genuine, almost fond amusement on her face for the first time. "Good. The world has too much politeness. It clogs the gears." She stands, the legs of her stool scraping against the gritty floor. "Now, come on. A demolished woman shouldn't sit still. It's bad for the foundations."

Emboldened, she drags Meice to a corner where a dice game is in progress, the bones clattering like dry teeth on the wood. "What are the rules?" Amar demands, her voice already slightly slurred.

Meice leans close, her breath a ghost of rice liquor. "Rule one: cheat better than your opponent." She demonstrates, her hands a blur as the dice cup moves, the result a perfect, improbable run. Amar, infused with a drunkard's earnestness, simply shakes the cup with all her might and lets fly. The dice bounce, tumble, and land showing two ones. The players groan. On her next turn, by sheer, glorious accident, she rolls two sixes. A moment of stunned silence, then Meice roars with laughter, slapping the table so hard the cups jump. "The gods love a fool!" she crows.

The house, however, does not. A large man with knuckles like river stones decides the Yohazatz girl's luck is unnatural. He reaches for the winnings. Meice's laughter dies. In one fluid motion, she hooks a foot around the leg of the table and upends it. A small meteor shower of copper and silver coins explodes across the room. In the ensuing chaos of scrambling bodies and shouted curses, she grabs Amar's wrist. "Run!" she yells, and they sprint out into the alley, howling with a shared, wild joy, their pockets stuffed with stolen meat dumplings from a nearby stall.

They find sanctuary on a low, flat rooftop, their feet dangling over the edge, the city spread out below them like a tapestry of secrets. The liquor has loosened their tongues, paving the way for a more dangerous currency: confession.

"My mother was a bonfire," Amar says softly, the words pulled from a deep, hidden place. "She burned so bright, and then there was just… ash. My brothers… the famine took them. And the word 'Yohazatz'… it's a wound. One everyone else seems to enjoy poking."

Meice is quiet for a long moment, studying the dregs of her liquor. "Behani dust," she says finally. "That's what I remember. Red and dry, gets in everything. You learn to sleep with one eye open and your hand on your knife." She takes a slow breath. "But before that… there was a teacher. She caught my fist before I even knew I was going to throw it. Taught me that a falling star is most beautiful just before it burns out." She clinks her cup against Amar's. "To the ones who didn't stay."

The moment of vulnerability is shattered by the sound of heavy, purposeful footsteps in the alley below. The rooftop access door slams open, and the space fills with men. They are a mix of zealots, their eyes burning with righteous fever, and local neighbors, their faces soured by fear and rumor into vigilante fury. Torches cast writhing shadows on the walls. "There! The northern fire-eye!" one shouts, pointing at Amar.

Another brandishes a coiled rope. "The prophet demands purity! The city must be cleansed!"

Amar staggers to her feet, the world tilting drunkenly, but she squares her shoulders, a proud, doomed defiance in her posture. Meice rises beside her, but not in front. She simply steps forward, barefoot on the rough tiles, a small, cold smile touching her lips.

The fight is not a brawl; it is a thesis statement. There is no guard, no preparatory stance. There are only angles. Meice moves like a machine built to deliver pain. An elbow becomes a collapsing constellation, snapping the rope-man's wrist with a sound like a dry twig breaking. A knee cuts the legs out from under a spear-wielder, and she folds the spear itself over her hip, the wood groaning in protest. She steps on a man's throat as he charges, not with malice, but with the impersonal finality of a stonemason setting a tile. He crumples, gagging. A fanatic, chanting a prayer to Linh's god, raises a cudgel. Meice simply punches the air beside his ear; the concussive force of the miss and the whistle of displaced air is a sermon more terrifying than any he knows. His eyes roll back, and he faints, collapsing into a heap of extinguished zeal.

When the alley is still, populated only by groaning forms and guttering torches, Meice stands in the center, breathing lightly. She wipes a trickle of blood from her nose with the back of her hand. "Falling Star," she announces to the unconscious and the fleeing, her voice flat and carrying. "Only ever beaten by one person."

Amar, breathless, her drunkenness burned away by adrenaline, stares at her, awe and horror warring in her eyes. "Who?" she breathes.

Meice turns her head, and for a fleeting instant, a profound, unguarded sorrow flickers in her gaze, a glimpse of the star before the fall. "A girl who didn't want to fight me." The name hangs unspoken in the air, a silhouette with amber eyes that flickers through the memory and is gone.

In the sudden quiet, the aftermath descends. The adrenaline fades, and the liquor reclaims its territory. Amar sways, her legs turning to water. Meice is there in an instant, catching her, swinging her up into a carry without a word of complaint. Amar's head lolls against Meice's shoulder, the world reduced to the rhythm of her protector's footsteps.

"If we live through this," Amar mumbles, half-asleep, her words slurred with exhaustion and drink, "I will learn to fall like that."

Meice adjusts her grip, her voice a low, almost gentle rumble in the quiet alley. "If we live, little fire-eye," she says, "you won't have to."

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