Threads of Fate

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Ash After Vows

The vows were spoken beneath smoke-stained banners, the wine poured bitter in iron cups instead of gold. Jinling did not sing nor laugh — the people lined the streets in silence, some with cautious hope, others with grief still raw. A wedding, yet it felt more like a truce carved out of wounds.

That night, in the chamber lit only by one wavering lantern, Xinyue sat by the window, her wedding veil folded neatly on the table, untouched since the ceremony. She still wore her pale robes, simple but dignified — white silk threaded with faint silver, not extravagant enough to shame her city, but regal enough to remind the envoy and nobles who she was.

Altan leaned lazily against the pillar, braids glinting faintly in the lamplight, watching her with the unhurried patience of a hunter.

"So," he drawled, voice low, "does every Jinling bride look as if she's mourning at her own wedding?"

Xinyue didn't turn. "If you expected a simpering bride, you should've picked someone else."

He smirked. "I didn't marry you for simpering."

Silence stretched, heavy but charged. Xinyue finally looked at him, gaze steady, unflinching.
"What do you plan next, Altan?" Her voice was flat, edged like steel. "You've got your alliance, your soldiers within these walls, your vows. What now? Do you keep your promise — or do you wait until the Emperor's leash tightens, then run?"

Altan's expression shifted, something sharper flickering beneath his grin.
"My plan, Princess," he said slowly, "is to keep this city standing when your father would rather see it burn. To remind him the Wolves are not his hounds, but my pack."

Her brows knit. "And me?"

His gaze held hers, unwavering. "You are the ember he fears most. My question is whether you'll keep burning, or let him snuff you out."

Her throat tightened, but she forced her tone cold. "Keep your riddles. We fight for Jinling first. Nothing else matters."

Altan stepped closer, so close his shadow merged with hers. "Careful, Princess. You say nothing else matters... but sometimes, the fire you light will consume more than you planned."

Xinyue's fists clenched in her sleeves. "Then let it consume you first."

For a heartbeat, his laughter broke the tension — low, genuine, and far too amused for a man who had just bound himself in a dangerous vow.

But before it could linger, her voice cut through the chamber, cold as a drawn blade.
"Don't mistake this for surrender. When this mess is over, expect divorce papers from me."

The laughter died in his throat. He blinked once, then leaned forward, so close she could see the faint scar that cut through his brow.
"Divorce?" His voice curled around the word like smoke. "You think the steppe signs papers? That I would let the Emperor's daughter walk away once the fire is mine?"

Xinyue's chin lifted, eyes blazing. "You wanted a bargain, Altan. Bargains end. And so will this."

For a moment, silence pressed between them, sharp as drawn steel. Then his mouth curved — not in mockery, but in something darker, heavier.
"Careful, Princess. You may find the one who wants out of this marriage isn't you."

Her breath caught, just for an instant, but she forced her face back into cool defiance. She turned away, ending the exchange, though her heart drummed far too fast beneath her ribs.

Altan remained where he was, staring at her back, his smile faint but laced with something unsettling — not anger, not hurt.
Possession.

Outside the hall, General Shucheng stood apart from the revelers, though there was little revelry to begin with. His arms folded, his gaze fixed on the darkened city beyond the walls. The faint echo of wedding drums still lingered, hollow as an empty jar.

Qiaoyun approached quietly, her hair pinned simply, her dress plain but dignified as lady-in-waiting. She stopped beside him, following his gaze outward.

"You look as though the city has lost, not gained," she said softly.

Shucheng's jaw worked. "Today, I watched my niece bound to a Wolf. And I called it protection. Tell me, Qiaoyun, is that not loss?"

Her voice sharpened, though quiet. "Don't take her strength away by calling it loss. She chose this. Just as she chose to fight at your side when others hid."

His gaze flicked to her, heavy with doubt and weariness. "And if it breaks her?"

Qiaoyun turned fully to face him, her dark eyes steady. "Then we stand and carry her weight until she heals. That's what family does."

Something in his expression shifted — a flicker of surprise, then a slow, reluctant softening. His eyes lingered a breath too long on her bruises now faded, on the fire in her stance. Not a girl he had to shield, but a woman who had chosen to stand beside him.

For the first time in years, the general looked away from the battlefield and saw something else — someone else.

In the still hours of dawn, the imperial envoy sat alone in his quarters, brush scratching against silk paper.

To His Majesty, Son of Heaven —

The Princess has wedded the Wolf lord beneath smoke and ash. The city bows, yet her defiance does not. She carries herself as if thrones are not lost but waiting. The steppe bows to her, but not fully. She is flame — too bright to leash, too dangerous to ignore.

I advise caution, Your Majesty. Fire burns brightest before it consumes.

He signed the scroll, sealing it with jade. Outside, the drums of Jinling faded, leaving only silence — the silence before another storm.