The northern border camp of Hua stood at the edge of the empire like a silent guardian.
Beyond its wooden walls stretched the endless grasslands of the steppe, where the wind moved freely across the tall yellow grass and the horizon seemed to blur into the pale autumn sky. The soldiers stationed there had long grown accustomed to the lonely rhythm of frontier life, where weeks often passed in quiet vigilance punctuated only by the occasional patrol or report arriving from the distant watchtowers.
When Shen Han rode through the gates of the camp that evening, the guards greeted him with immediate bows.
He acknowledged them with the calm composure expected of a general returning from inspection, though the long journey from Tughril had left a faint layer of dust along the edges of his cloak.
For anyone observing him from a distance, nothing about his arrival appeared unusual.
Only Shen Han knew how narrowly he had avoided disaster.
