Spring had begun to court the capital—snow thinning to slush, plum blossoms stabbing color through the grey—but inside the palace the air was all ink and whispers.
The Emperor (still a boy, still a puppet of regents) had signed Lan Yue's patent of office with a hand too shaky for calligraphy; the seal had to be pressed twice.
So the swan became an envoy on paper.
In practice she became bait.
Council of Hawks — dawn, Sandalwood Hall
Ministers circled low tables like carrion birds.
Maps lay unfurled: the northern grain route, the mountain passes, the smugglers' trails that fed the Wolf King's arsenals.
Red sticks marked "known ambush sites," black sticks "disappeared caravans."
A new green stick: "Envoy's inaugural ride."
Empress Dowager tapped the green marker.
"Lady Lan will escort the second grain convoy. If it arrives untouched, the treaty holds. If bandits strike—" her gaze flicked to Yue "—the envoy will identify whether wolves or mere jackals wear the pelts."
Translation: prove the Wolf King's good faith, or expose his treachery before spring planting turns to summer war.
Zhao Shen objected: "She just returned from ice and near-death. Give her time to heal."
The Dowager's smile was thin. "Wounds heal on horseback as well as in bed. Besides, the realm needs symbols in motion, not in bandages."
Yue bowed. "I ride at mid-day."
Zhao Shen's jaw tightened; he said no more in open council, but his fingers drummed the table in a rhythm she read easily: be careful, come back.
Armoury yard — two hours later
Han tossed her a new-issue crossbow—compact, recurve limbs, ivory sight.
"Forty paces accurate from saddle. Draw weight light enough you can crank one-handed if your other arm's busy holding ribs together."
Chen Wei arrived with a burlap sack: crushed chili, sulfur, saltpeter.
"Bandit trick," he grinned. "Toss on fire—smoke burns eyes, spoils ambush. Also seasons stew."
Wen Ruo, unexpected, offered a silk-wrapped bundle: a folded fan painted with a single white swan skimming storm-dark water.
"For diplomacy," she said. "When words fail, a gesture remembered at court."
Yue tucked each gift away, feeling the weight of friendship heavier than armour.
Zhao Shen appeared last, carrying nothing but a strip of black cloth.
He tied it around her left bracer—tight, deliberate.
"Signal," he murmured. "If you need rescue, wave this above your head. My scouts will see. I will come."
Their eyes met—public, restrained.
She touched the cloth once, like a promise pressed between pulses.
The convoy — mile seven beyond the city
One hundred mules, twenty drivers, eight imperial guards, plus Yue and Han riding swing positions.
Grain sacks stamped with the wolf-paw seal—northern guarantee of safe passage.
If those sacks burned, so did the treaty.
Clouds hung low, bruised.
Roads turned to slush; hooves sucked and squelched.
By dusk they reached Three-Fork Pass, a granite throat where boulders cast natural battlements.
Perfect place for an ambush; perfect place to test symbols.
Han signalled halt.
"Make camp like merchants—careless fires, noisy laughter. Let shadows think we're fat and sleepy."
Yue nodded, heart ticking faster than hoof-beats.
First watch — moonless dark
She crouched on a boulder, crossbow loaded, ears straining.
Snow had turned to sleet; droplets tapped helmet like impatient fingers.
Somewhere below, mules snorted, chains clinked.
A whiff of smoke—not their own fires.
She sniffed again: pine resin, wet leather, northern tallow.
Wolf camp? Or bandits using wolf scent as disguise?
She slid down, found Han.
"Two scouts, east ridge. I'll circle west, come in behind. Keep camp lit."
Han caught her arm. "Alone?"
"Quietest." She grinned. "Swans hunt at night."
Ridge west — forty heartbeats later
She ghosted between rocks, white armour dulled with mud.
Sleet blurred outlines; perfect cloak.
Ahead: two figures crouched, observing the convoy fires.
Both wore wolf-pelt cloaks—but the dialect drifting back was southern mountain bandit, not northern guttural.
False flag.
Proof the Wolf King might not have ordered the raid—or proof he hired local jackals to keep claws technically clean.
She nocked a bolt, exhaled—then hesitated.
Killing them revealed nothing. Captive tongues sang louder than corpses.
She swapped bolt for blunt cap, crept closer, leapt.
First bandit folded beneath her knee; second spun, axe flashing.
She parried with crossbow stock, twisted his wrist, drove elbow to temple—both down.
Quickly she bound wrists with saddle thong, gagged with their own head-cloths, dragged the pair behind a boulder.
From one pouch she drew the chili-sulfur mix, sprinkled a thin line across the ground—trip flare if friends came searching.
Back at camp she dumped the prisoners before Han's fire.
Faces woke; drivers formed a ring.
Han yanked a gag.
"Name your paymaster," he growled.
Bandit spat blood, sneered. "Wolf King sends greetings."
Yue knelt, voice soft. "Wolf King's seal is on those sacks. Burn them and you burn his word. He gains nothing. Who hired you?"
The sneer faltered—logic slicing bravado.
Second bandit, younger, cracked: "Merchant guild in the capital—Red Lantern Guild. They buy cheap grain, sell high in famine. Peace ruins profit."
Gasps from drivers—some guild members among them?
Yue kept her face calm. "Proof?"
Young bandit jerked chin toward elder's boot.
Hidden sheath: a red-lacquered tally stick stamped with lantern symbol—payment token, redeemable at city warehouse.
Han whistled. "Court snakes, not northern wolves."
Dawn — roadside judgement
They planted the tally stick upright in the road, nailed the wolf-pelts beside it—message to whoever tracked the raid: we know the mask you wore.
Prisoners they sent south with a six-man escort; testimony would reach the Dowager before the next moon.
The convoy rolled on—untouched grain, intact treaty, jackals exposed.
Mile thirty — evening, Swan Rest post-house
Riders bathed in copper tubs; steam fogged lattice windows.
Yue soaked until bruises pinked, then wrote her report:
Raid thwarted.
Perpetrators: southern bandits, false-flagged as wolves.
Paymaster: Red Lantern Guild (capital).
Grain safe; treaty unbroken.
Recommend audit of guild warehouses before spring price spike.
She signed with the envoy's new seal: a swan overlaying crossed grain stalks.
Ink dried like fresh vows.
Rooftop — midnight
She found Zhao Shen waiting, cloak dusted with travel grit—he had ridden hard to meet her, black cloth token still knotted at her wrist.
For a moment neither spoke; the night smelled of wet earth and budding plum.
He lifted her left hand, thumb brushing the bandage where the crossbow string had kissed skin.
"You waved no signal."
"I didn't need rescue."
A small smile. "Good. But the cloth stays—for next time."
She tugged him down to sit beside her, legs dangling above post-house yard.
Torches flickered; somewhere a night bird called.
She told him of the tally stick, the guild, the near-fire.
He listened, jaw tight.
"Red Lantern has ministers in its purse. Mother will enjoy pruning them."
Silence settled, comfortable.
Then, quietly: "I felt the jade shard pulse the night the bridge fell. Did you… lose anything else?"
She understood—he asked if she lost herself.
She drew the tiny jade splinter from her neck-pouch, laid it on his palm, then placed the new white river-stone beside it—two fragments, one future.
"I gave the whole. It gave a piece back. That is enough."
He closed his fingers over both, eyes bright.
"Then so will I."
Below, a guard changed watch; the convoy drivers laughed around a dice game; the world, for tonight, held its breath between thaw and war.
Above, moon cleared clouds—not full yet, but growing.
She thought of Khan Orbai under the same moon, weighing his own moves; of ministers soon to fall; of grain that must reach starving fields before greed burned them.
War postponed, not cancelled—a chess clock still ticking.
But for this hour, on this rooftop, she had won the first hunt of her envoyhood—and the city that once sent her north now waited to see what else the swan would drag from darkness.
She bumped Shen's shoulder. "Ride back with us at dawn?"
He exhaled, content. "Try to stop me."
They sat until torches burned low, sharing quiet like stolen bread—two shadows learning the shape of peace, one raid at a time.