The ridge settled into the brittle hush that follows amputation.
Snow kept falling—lazy, almost apologetic—filling hoof-prints until even memory lost the trail.
Lan walked the palisade twice, testing joints, counting arrows, but the numbers felt like borrowed clothes: right size, wrong owner.
Every thirty paces she glanced south-west, half-expecting to see Yulan's column re-emerge, banner unfurled, joke on his lips.
Only the wind returned, carrying the smell of resin and distant horse-dung frozen solid.
Third watch, the moon high and heartless, a sentry hissed: "Rider coming—single, no torch."
Lan reached the parapet in time to see a shape materialise out of the dark—white cloak, white horse, white breath—moving at a walk so deliberate it felt ceremonial.
The rider halted beyond arrow-shot, sat motionless, then raised a staff from which hung a lantern of pale horn; inside, a single coal glowed green—the colour of Wei Lian's personal seal.
A parley light, but carried alone, at night, in enemy jaws.
Shen appeared bare-headed, hair powdered with snow.
"Name," he called.
The rider pushed back hood—a woman, cheekbones sharp enough to shave moonlight.
Lan's stomach lurched: the same grey-cloaked envoy who had walked the cliff edge before battle, twin to the one who had offered the jade arrowhead hours ago.
Yet not twin—scar across the lip, braid shorter, eyes older.
Sister, perhaps. Or the same woman returned from a future they hadn't survived.
She spoke, voice carrying without effort.
"I come bearing a private ledger for the Scout-Captain. No blade, no bow. One word, one witness."
She glanced at Lan—invitation or indictment.
Shen's jaw tightened.
Lan stepped closer. "If she dies inside our lines, we learn nothing. If she lives, we still might."
She felt rather than saw his nod—permission wrapped in warning.
Gate cracked; she went out alone, no shield, bow unstrung.
The woman dismounted, sank to one knee in snow—not submission, practicality: knees absorb sound better than boots.
She offered a tube of white jade, cap sealed with crimson wax—Wei Lian's colour, but reversed: wolf on top, field below.
A different house, same blood.
Lan broke the seal. Inside: a single sheet of rice-paper, ink still drying—blood-ink, she could smell the iron.
Characters written in a woman's hand, slender, slanted left:
"To the one who sings off-key on ledges:
Your prince keeps the ridge; my prince keeps the valley.
Both are minor holdings.
Come south tomorrow—alone, unarmed, to the fork where the frozen river remembers your thumb-print.
Bring the harp.
I will bring the bridge you haven't dared to cross.
If you refuse, the next courier will be fire instead of words, and the ridge will burn from the inside.
Choose before the moon sets."
No signature—only a thumb-print in blood-ink, whorls sharp as arrow fletching.
Lan's own thumb tingled where she had cut it on the ford ice—a mirror debt.
She looked up.
The woman waited, eyes reflecting green coal.
"Name?" Lan asked.
"Ruo," she answered—Wei Lian's half-brother, the one they called the 'shadow prince', rumoured to command night battles and negotiate with ghosts.
Yet here stood a woman speaking his lines—a mouthpiece, or a blade in human sheath.
Lan pocketed the tube.
"Tell your prince I'll come. But if the bridge is a trap, I'll tune it with his tendons."
Voice flat, heart racing—not fear, recognition: the next movement in a duel begun with peach-sweet notes and unfinished refrains.
The woman smiled—small, almost tender.
"Music frightens men who worship iron. Bring both."
She mounted, extinguished the green coal with a gloved pinch, rode into darkness at the same ceremonial walk—a messenger who left no hoof-print, only obligation.
Back Inside the Palisade
Shen read the letter by brazier-light, lips moving silently.
When he finished he held the paper above flame until edges curled, then let it drop—ash like grey snow on his boots.
He spoke without looking at her.
"You'll refuse."
Not an order—a test.
Lan met his gaze. "If I do, the ridge burns. If I go, I may learn how. Either way, the fire starts at the fork. Better to choose the hour than wait for the spark."
His hand clenched on the parapet rail—wood creaking under gauntlet.
"Alone. Unarmed. A prince who admires talent and falls for it."
A breath. "Yulan's jealousy was a candle. This will be a forge."
She stepped closer, voice low. "I walked your palm-print on the wagon. I walked the ledge song. I can walk a bridge of ice without falling."
She touched the cedar harp through her cloak—six strings, six witnesses.
He closed his eyes a moment—longest surrender she had ever seen.
When they opened they held the same colour as the night he'd scattered black rice for drowned soldiers.
"Go," he said. "But leave me the harp-strings. If you don't return, I'll re-string my bow with them. Every arrow will carry the note you owe me."
A vow brutal and romantic in equal measure—the only kind they traded.
She unlaced the harp, removed each gut string, coiled them into his palm—warmth against winter, music against silence.
The hollow frame she kept—a promise to bring it back full, or not at all.
Gate opened again; she walked out alone, moon tilting toward set.
Behind her the ridge dimmed—torches doused, ballistae silent, as if the entire army held its breath so one woman could keep a blood-signed appointment.
Ahead, the frozen river glinted like a blade waiting to decide whose thumb-print would remain.