Threads of Fate

Chapter Twenty-Three - Ashes and Chains

The night after the Wolves raised jade banners, Jinling did not sleep.

The city seemed to breathe in shallow gasps — alleys too quiet, watchfires too bright, whispers coiling under the eaves like smoke. Soldiers sharpened blades not for Wolves, but for the shadows in their own streets. Every creak of wood, every distant horn, felt like the Emperor's hand tightening the noose.

General Shucheng ended the council late, his voice hoarse from shouting down nobles and their venomous whispers. When the hall emptied, he remained behind, staring at the maps as though sheer will might change the lines inked across them.

But elsewhere in the citadel, another silence weighed heavier.

Qiaoyun found Xinyue in the garden, where the lantern light threw long shadows over frost-bitten branches. The princess sat on a stone bench, shoulders stiff, hands pressed into her sleeves as though holding herself together by sheer force.

For a moment Qiaoyun just watched, remembering the girl who once laughed too loud in markets, who had always dragged her toward trouble with a grin. That girl seemed buried now, under smoke and jade banners.

She stepped forward softly. "Xinyue."

Xinyue turned, her face pale but eyes defiant. "You should be resting."

"So should you," Qiaoyun countered, sitting beside her. The silence stretched until Qiaoyun's voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Tell me the truth. About what they said in the chamber. About the banners."

Xinyue's hands tightened, nails biting into her palms. For a heartbeat she said nothing, then the words spilled raw.
"My father sent them. The Wolves. The jade. All of it. And every soldier who dies here—every mother who starves—will bleed because of his hand. Because of me."

Qiaoyun reached over, gripping her cold fingers. "No. Don't you dare carry his sins as yours. You didn't choose this war. You chose to fight for us. That's the only truth I'll see."

Xinyue's breath hitched. She turned away quickly, but not before Qiaoyun saw the sheen in her eyes.

"You always make it sound so simple," Xinyue muttered, voice breaking on the edges.

"Because it is." Qiaoyun leaned closer, stubborn fire burning in her gaze. "You're not alone in this. Not while I still breathe."

For the first time that night, Xinyue let her forehead rest briefly against her friend's shoulder. A small, fragile moment—but one that steadied her heart.

Later, when Xinyue finally retired, Qiaoyun made her way toward the council chamber. The doors creaked as she entered, her sleeve still wrinkled from the rough journey back from captivity.

Shucheng did not turn at first. He stood by the window, back straight as an iron rod, hands locked behind him, staring into the darkness where banners swayed faintly above the city walls.

"You were with her," he said at last, voice low. "Tell me, Qiaoyun — how does she bear this news?"

Qiaoyun faltered, remembering Xinyue's pale face, the way her friend had clenched her fists until the nails cut skin. She swallowed.
"She won't say it, General. But it cut her deeper than any blade the Wolves carried."

Shucheng's jaw tightened. His hand, resting on the sill, curled into a fist.
"She should never have been here," he muttered. "I should never have let—"

"Don't," Qiaoyun cut in sharply. He turned, startled, at the steel in her voice. "Don't blame yourself. She chose to stand with us. She's not the kind of girl you can keep behind walls."

His gaze lingered on her, the fury in his face easing into something heavier. Not command. Not duty. Something quieter—something that searched her expression as though weighing her resolve.

"And you?" he asked.

Qiaoyun lifted her chin, bruises still fading but her eyes clear. "I'll stand with her too. No matter what comes."

A long silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of distant torches. At last, Shucheng exhaled, slow and weary, but his hand rose and rested briefly on her shoulder — not paternal, not casual, but deliberate, steady.

"Then the burden is ours to share," he murmured. His gaze held hers a moment too long before drifting away.

The same night, Xinyue sat awake in her chamber. Her bow rested against the wall, unstrung, and a basin of cold water stood untouched at her side. She dipped her palms in, pressing them to her face, trying to wash away the tremor in her breath.

The door creaked. Xiaohua slipped in, carrying a small lamp and a bundle of herbs.
"You haven't slept," she whispered.

"Neither has Jinling," Xinyue answered, voice hollow.

Xiaohua knelt, gently prying Xinyue's hands from her face, dabbing the cuts across her knuckles with careful precision. But she did not hide the tears welling in her eyes when she whispered:
"They call me blossom in ash. A leash. A noose. Am I only that, Xiaohua?"

The maid bowed low, forehead nearly to the floor. Her voice shook, but her words were clear.
"To them, maybe. But to me—" she raised her head, gaze fierce through the tears, "—to me, Your Highness, you are the only light I follow. Even into fire, I will go where you lead."

The title struck hard, heavier than any arrow. Your Highness. No more hiding. No more namelessness.

Xinyue blinked rapidly, throat closing tight. "But if I lead you to ruin?"

Xiaohua smiled softly, but there was no hesitation.
"Then I will walk that ruin gladly, if it is beside you. There is no safe road, only the one you claim as your own."

Xinyue gripped her maid's hand — friend, sister, shadow — and for the first time that night, let herself cry.

Dawn came thin and gray.

On the balcony overlooking the city, Altan waited, arms folded, the wind tugging at his dark hair. Xinyue approached, cloak pulled tight.

"You look as though you've been carved from the stone itself," she muttered.

"And you," he said without turning, "look as though stone has been carving you."

Her temper flared, quick as flint. "You think mockery helps?"

"I think truth cuts deeper," he said evenly, then finally turned to her. His eyes held no mockery now — only the gleam of someone who had seen the game from higher ground.
"You can't outrun him. The Emperor will leash you, or bleed you. Unless you leash him first."

Xinyue frowned. "How?"

Altan stepped closer, lowering his voice until the words coiled between them like a secret.
"By chaining empire and steppe together. With your bloodline. With my blade."

Her eyes widened. She searched his face for jest, for cruelty — but there was only steel resolve.

His mouth curved in that dangerous half-smile.
"Marry me."

The word struck like thunder in her chest.

Before she could answer, the heavy slam of boots echoed on the stones. Batu stormed onto the balcony, breathless, a scroll clutched in his fist.

"General!" he barked, eyes flicking between them. "The envoy has sent word. Three days. The Princess is to return to the Capital within three days — under imperial escort."

Xinyue's world lurched. Altan's words still rang in her ears.

Marry me.
Return in chains.

The noose tightened.