Twenty-ninth day on the road, dusk at River-Fork Town
The local prefect, grateful for the seized grain, insisted on hosting the annual "Festival of the River Ghosts" in the princes' honour.
The entire imperial column was granted one night's rest; paddocks became paddocks again, not parade grounds.
Lan Yue planned to spend the evening oiling gear—until Shen tossed her a purse of silver and the order: "Walk the town, listen more than you speak, and remember what laughter sounds like; we may need it when winter hits."
So she bathed in a bucket behind the tents, untied the warrior's knot, and let her hair fall to her shoulder-blades—the closest she still came to letting go.
River-Folded Streets
Paper lanterns hung from every eave, each shaped like a creature of water: carp, otter, kingfisher, dragon.
Children dragged miniature barges on strings, begging the "river ghosts" to ferry their wishes downstream.
Yuan, irrepressible, bought a mask shaped like a moon-faced fox and immediately tried to barter it for Yue's half-eaten honey-cake.
She refused; he settled for tying blue ribbons into her mare's tail instead—"so the ghosts know you're spoken for"—then vanished into the crowd before she could retort.
The Prince in Plain Cotton
Shen wore civilian indigo, collar high, hair pinned only with a plain silver clasp.
Without armour he looked younger, almost approachable—until you noticed the two silent guards drifting in his wake like shadows he had forgotten to shake off.
He fell into step beside Yue without asking, matching her slower pace.
"Enjoy the festival, but keep one ear open," he murmured.
"Smugglers celebrate too, and celebrations loosen tongues."
She felt the warmth of his shoulder inches from hers and answered with a joke about loosened tongues being easier to trip over; he surprised her by laughing—a low, startled sound that fluttered inside her chest.
The Floating Puzzle
At the stone quay the prefect had moored a giant lotus lantern on a raft.
Its petals were parchment; on each petal a riddle was painted in gold ink.
Solve one, peel the petal, and inside waited a silver coin plus a new clue.
The first solver to reach the heart would win the "Moon-Pearl" – a fist-sized globe of frosted glass lit from within by a single candle.
Rumour said the prefect purchased it from southern traders for the price of a house.
Children and merchants crowded the raft rails, shouting guesses, petals drifting like fallen sunrise.
The Riddle That Shouldn't Be
Yue leaned over a petal that read:
"I have a neck but no head,
two arms but no hands,
I wear a belt yet never eat.
Name me."
A wine-seller's son yelled "A lute!"; the master of ceremonies shook his head.
Yue's mind ticked—neck, arms, belt—then clicked: a crossbow.
She spoke it aloud; the crowd hushed, then cheered as she peeled the petal.
Silver coin dropped into her palm; inside lay the next clue:
"Find me where iron sings to water,
where the ghost of salt meets the ghost of grain.
Count the teeth that never bite."
Shen, reading over her shoulder, went still.
"Iron sings to water" could mean the dock's winch; "salt meets grain" suggested the customs shed where levies on fish and millet were tallied.
But "teeth that never bite" felt wrong—too specific, too recent.
He murmured, "Someone's using the game to pass real information."
Yue pocketed the silver, already moving.
Following Petals
They tracked petals upstream: a barge with a painted toothy carp; a warehouse whose sign showed crossed sickles (teeth); a tavern named "The Salt Song."
Each correct answer drew smaller applause and more furtive glances.
At the fourth stop Shen's guard spotted a cloaked figure slipping a new petal onto an unlit lantern—a riddle that hadn't existed at sunset.
They tailed him through spice-alleys perfumed with pepper and regret, lost him at a silk-dyer's vat where crimson cloth steamed like fresh blood.
The Final Puzzle – Lantern Heart
Back at the quay the master of ceremonies announced only one solver remained in earnest: a girl in a plain cloak who had answered every public clue.
Whispers rippled—a woman?—until someone recognised the white jade clasp in her hair: cadet officer.
Yue stepped onto the raft.
The last petal read:
"I am the twin who walks beside you,
yet vanishes when you turn.
I speak every language,
but repeat only danger.
Free me and the river drinks fire."
She felt the crowd's breath stop.
Shen, standing on the pier, hand on sword, mouthed: Shadow.
She said it aloud.
The petal peeled away; instead of a silver coin a tiny iron vial dropped into her hand—oil of fire-root, explosive when mixed with air.
Inside the glass pearl at the very centre of the lotus a spark already glowed—not candlelight but slow-match.
Whoever opened the globe would spill burning oil onto a raft stacked with paper lanterns and children.
The Arrow That Wasn't
Yue's bow was slung peace-tied, but her mind measured distance: thirty paces, cross-wind, moving raft.
She could shoot the chain holding the raft to the pier, letting current carry fire away—but the river curved toward wooden houses.
She could shout for water, but panic might tip lanterns sooner.
Instead she lifted the iron vial, showed it to the crowd.
"River ghosts demand silence," she called, voice steady.
"Back beyond the stones."
Parents scooped children; space opened.
She glanced at Shen; he understood, tossed his own wine-flask.
She poured fire-oil into it, stoppered with wax, then—heartbeats left—spun the glass pearl so its fuse faced the water.
She hurled flask and pearl together into the river.
The splash drowned fuse and oil alike; steam hissed, darkness swallowed threat.
A collective gasp, then applause thundered louder than festival drums.
Aftermath on the Pier
The prefect hurried forward, pale.
"Assassins meant to burn the princes," he stammered.
Shen's guards already had the master of ceremonies pinned; the man's fine sleeves bore traces of fire-root resin.
Under torchlight Shen questioned him quietly—no shouts, no drawn steel, just words that made the man shrink until he confessed: paid by Magistrate Wei's agent to stage "accident," blame northern smugglers, discredit the royal audit.
The prefect knelt, head to planks.
Yue stepped back, suddenly aware of children clutching her cloak, asking to see the "lady who saved the moon."
The Moon-Pearl Reward
Since the pearl was never opened, the prefect declared Yue rightful winner.
Servants lifted the dripping globe from the river; inside, the candle had gone out, but glass still shimmered like captured dawn.
He presented it with both hands.
She tried to refuse—cadets may not accept lavish gifts—but Shen spoke behind her:
"Take it.
A soldier who refuses reward teaches children that courage goes unpaid."
She bowed, accepted.
The globe felt warm, alive, as if it remembered almost burning.
Moonlit Walk Back
The festival resumed—music, laughter, the smell of bean-cakes.
Shen walked beside her, guards trailing farther than regulations allowed.
Neither spoke for a dozen heartbeats.
Then he said, very low,
"You saw the shadow before I mouthed it."
She shrugged.
"I've walked beside danger long enough to recognise its silhouette."
He stopped beneath a lantern shaped like a swan.
Light painted gold across his cheekbones, pooled in the hollow of his throat.
"I thought myself prepared to lose officers tonight," he continued.
"I was not prepared to lose you."
The words seemed to startle him as much as her.
He looked away quickly, as if the admission had leapt without permission.
She answered with the only honesty she possessed:
"You won't.
Not while I still owe you a lantern ride downriver."
His laugh this time was softer, almost shy.
For a moment the war, the grain, the wolves beyond the passes all thinned to paper, and they stood simply—two silhouettes beneath a paper swan, sharing breath that tasted of river mist and near-misses.
Private Epilogue in the Tent
She set the moon-pearl on her field-chest, watched candlelight swim inside it until sleep took her.
Outside, festival drums softened into lullaby.
Somewhere in the dark Shen stood watch, counting stars the way quartermasters count grain—one too few, one too many.
She dreamed of lanterns that refused to burn, of riddles whose answers changed every time she neared them, of a swan drifting unscathed through fire.
When she woke before reveille the pearl had cooled, but her palm still tingled as if holding something unfinished—a question only the river ahead could answer.