Jianyuan Era, Year 1. The 1st Day of the 8th Month. Chang'an.
The third day after the urgent border reports ceased, the sky remained overcast. The north wind poured in from outside the palace walls, rolling with withered leaves that struck the lattice windows with a rustling sound, like something scratching at the heart. Charcoal fires burned in the workshop, but my feet were still cold. I sat at the work table, a silk scroll spread before me recording the accounts calculated over the past half-month. Palace expenditures reduced by thirty percent—excess palace staff dismissed, banquets halted for half a year, even the lamps in Jiaofang Hall were trimmed by two. The numbers were cold, but the hands calculating them were hot.
Ajiao sat opposite me, holding a copper mirror broken into four pieces. She had been repairing that mirror for half a month—assembled, taken apart, reassembled. The cracks remained, but she was not impatient. She had recently learned to wait.
"Niangniang," Qingxing entered with tea, her footsteps light as if afraid to crush something. "His Majesty is meeting the Xiongnu envoy in Xuanshi Hall."
My hand paused. The cinnabar at the tip of my brush bled into the silk scroll, a small patch of red like blood. "Xiongnu envoy?"
"They say they come to negotiate peace. But they brought no state letter, no gifts. Just one man, riding one horse, straight to the city gate."
Ajiao put down the copper mirror and raised her head. Her fingers lingered on the mirror surface for an instant, knuckles turning white. I set down my brush. Peace talks, no state letter, no gifts, one man on one horse. This was not negotiation; it was a probe. I chewed over those words in my mind—one man, one horse, straight to the city gate. He wasn't here to talk. He was here to look. To see if we were afraid.
Xuanshi Hall. The atmosphere was like a taut bowstring. When I walked in, everyone looked up at me. Those gazes held surprise, scrutiny, and something indefinable—an Empress, appearing herself at a court session with a Xiongnu envoy. Liu Che sat on the Dragon Throne in casual clothes, without a crown. Standing before him was a man—wearing Hu clothing, fur coat, boots still stained with mud, leaving several dark footprints on the stone slabs. His face was tanned dark by the sun, cheekbones high, eyes narrow and long like an eagle's. He stood there, not kneeling. The Han officials in the hall looked displeased, but no one dared to flare up at this moment. He was waiting. Waiting for one of us to speak first.
He saw me, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment, then smiled. That smile was not one of respect; it was the smile of a hunter seeing prey—the corners of his lips slightly raised, like a steppe eagle sighting a rabbit.
"Great Han Empress?" His Han speech was stiff, but every word was clear, as if practiced. "I hear the court politics of Great Han are managed by the Empress?"
The hall fell silent for a moment. Everyone waited for my reaction. Liu Che said nothing. He looked at that envoy, his gaze flat. But his fingers tapped lightly on his knee—once, very short, like the sound of a blade leaving its sheath. I knew he was enduring. He was waiting for me to speak.
"The court politics of Great Han are managed by the Son of Heaven." My voice was flat, as if stating a very ordinary matter. But I saw the envoy's eyes narrow slightly—he heard what lay beneath that flatness. "This palace merely shares the Emperor's worries."
The envoy smiled again. "Share worries? Interesting. On our steppes, women do not participate in politics. A woman's duty is bearing children, cooking, milking sheep."
Someone in the hall inhaled sharply. That sound was light, but exceptionally clear in the quiet hall. Liu Che's fingers paused. My chest felt struck by something, not pain, but fire. But I did not flare up. I looked at him.
"That is the steppes," my voice remained flat. "This is Great Han. The women of Great Han can repair artifacts, manage account books, attend court. The women of Great Han—" I looked at him, not shifting my gaze, "do not feel inferior just because they are women."
The envoy's smile stiffened for an instant. That stiffness was brief, but I saw it. The corners of his mouth drooped slightly, then pulled back. His eyes narrowed further, as if re-evaluating the weight of the prey.
"Emperor of Great Han," he turned his head, looking at Liu Che. His voice changed, no longer probing, but something harder. "Our Chanyu has said that this winter, there will be a heavy snow on the steppes. When the snow is heavy, the cattle and sheep will die. When the cattle and sheep die, the people cannot survive. When people cannot survive, they can only move south."
His voice was flat, as if stating a very ordinary matter. But beneath that flatness was a blade. Every word was like a blade's edge, sweeping across the faces of everyone in the hall. I saw the Imperial Censor's fingers clench, the Minister of Ceremonies bow his head lower, Li Guang's hand press on his sword hilt. Liu Che looked at him for a long time. The candle flame in the hall jumped,pi-pa. The jade beads swayed gently before him, the sound of jade clinking light as wind chimes. Then he smiled. Not a cold smile, not an angry smile, but something colder. That smile stayed only at the corners of his mouth, not reaching his eyes.
"Go back and tell your Chanyu—" He stood up, walking to the envoy. Boots struck the stone slabs, one by one, heavy. He was half a head taller than the envoy, looking down. His face was expressionless, but I saw his hand—hanging by his side, clenched tight. "Every inch of Great Han's land has a name. Every person of Great Han has an origin. The day you move south—I will let you know whether Great Han is ready or not."
The envoy's face changed. Not pale, but cyan. His lips moved, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. He retreated half a step, his boots scraping against the stone slab with a harsh sound.
"See him out," Liu Che said.
The envoy left. When he walked, his steps were fast, boots striking the stone slabs,da-da-da, like fleeing. The hall remained silent for a long time. Silent enough to hear the wick cracking, silent enough to hear one's own heartbeat.
"Xingye." Liu Che called my name.
"Mm."
"What do you think he will say when he returns?"
"He will say—" I looked at him. His face was half-lit, half-shadowed in the candlelight, but his eyes were bright. "The Emperor of Great Han is not afraid. The Empress of Great Han is not afraid either."
He smiled. Faint, genuine.
"That is good."
Jianyuan Era, Year 1. The 3rd Day of the 9th Month. Chang'an.
Liu Che began training troops. Not ordering generals to train, but training himself. Every day before dawn, he rose, put on armor, mounted a horse, and went to the Northern Army camp. The Northern Army camp was on the south bank of the Wei River; the wind was strong, sand and dust stinging the face. He ate with the soldiers—coarse grains, dried meat, cold water, sitting on the muddy ground, squeezed together with sixteen or seventeen-year-old boys. He ran with the soldiers—armor weighing on his body, every step sinking into the mud, boots heavy as if filled with lead. He shot arrows with the soldiers—bowstrings cutting fingers, blood seeping out, which he wrapped with cloth strips, then continued drawing.
New hard calluses formed on his palms, every line reflecting sweat marks under the morning light. His face took on a new color from the sun, a shallow scar appearing below his cheekbone—left by a grazing arrow; he didn't say, and I didn't ask.
When he returned, sometimes he had injuries. Scrapes, bruises, contusions from falling off horses. He didn't say, and I didn't ask. Just every time he returned, I would add an extra scoop of salt to the bathwater. The salt dissolved in the water, invisible, but he knew.
"Xingye." One day he returned, sitting in the bathtub, back to me. Steam rose, blurring his outline. There was a new bruise on his back, cyan-purple, very long, extending from the shoulder blade to the waist. I looked at that bruise, saying nothing.
"Today while shooting arrows, there was a soldier, sixteen years old. Same age as me." His voice was low, low as if dredged from water. "He shot better than me. He said he grew up on the border, shooting arrows since childhood. His father died at the hands of the Xiongnu, his mother died at the hands of the Xiongnu. He is an orphan."
He paused. Salt floated on the water surface, dissolved, invisible.
"He said he wants to fight back. Not for the Emperor, but for his father, for his mother."
I reached out, lightly pressing my hand on the bruise on his back. He flinched, then didn't move. My palm against his back, I could feel the temperature beneath—scalding.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
He smiled. Low, light, the laughter muffled in the steam.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"I don't want to be an Emperor who only sits on the Dragon Throne."
"I know."
"I want to be—an Emperor who can protect them."
I looked at him. Steam rose, blurring his outline. But his eyes were very bright, bright as a blade's edge. Beneath that brightness was fire.
"You will be," I said.
Jianyuan Era, Year 1. The 10th Day of the 10th Month. Chang'an.
Ajiao's shop opened. In the West Market, a very small one, sandwiched between a cloth seller and a cake seller. A wooden sign hung at the door, reading "Ajiao Repairs Mirrors." The characters were written by herself, crooked, but very earnest. Inside the shop stood an old work table, holding a chopping block, grinding stone, boar bristle brushes, several buckets of black lacquer. Several repaired copper mirrors hung on the wall, reflecting dim light under the candle flame.
On opening day, she wore new clothes, moon-white, no patterns. She stood at the door, holding a repaired copper mirror, waiting for customers. The sounds of the West Market poured in from outside—peddlers shouting, children crying, women bargaining—mixed together like a pot of boiling porridge. She stood there, like a drop of water falling into hot oil, but did not splash. The first customer was an old woman, bringing a copper mirror broken into two pieces, asking if it could be repaired. Ajiao took it, looking for a long time. Her fingers traced the break once, as if recognizing a path.
"It can," she said.
The old woman asked how much. Ajiao said, pay after it's fixed.
That night, I went to see her. One lamp was lit in the shop; she was repairing that copper mirror under the light. The cloth strip on her finger was changed to a new one, but blood still seeped out, bleeding into the cloth, a small patch of dark red. Her brow was furrowed, lips pressed tight, a different expression from when she waited for rewards in the Princess's manor. Before it was fear, now it was earnestness.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"No." She didn't raise her head.
"Liar."
She smiled. Raising her head, looking at me. Lamp shadows danced on her face, illuminating it brightly. She looked at that copper mirror for a long time.
"Xingye, you know, this is the first time I—earned money myself."
"Mm."
"Before, every coin I spent was my mother's. Every coin required watching her mood. If she was happy, she gave more. If not, less. I never knew what it felt like to spend money I earned myself."
She lowered her head, continuing to repair the copper mirror. Tweezers picked up a small fragment, aligned with the gap, gently pressed down.
"Now I know."
"What does it feel like?"
"Solid."
She didn't speak again. I stood at the door, watching her back. Lamp shadows danced on her, casting her shadow on the wall, small, but very steady. Outside the window, the sounds of the West Market gradually dispersed, Chang'an's night grew quiet.
Jianyuan Era, Year 1. The 15th Day of the 11th Month. Chang'an.
Liu Che stayed with the Northern Army for three months, then returned. He had lost a lot of weight, the angles of his face sharper, jawline taut like a blade. The armor on his body had an extra circle of space, but he stood straighter. His eyes were still that bright, but beneath that brightness, an extra layer of something had appeared. Not fatigue, but something heavier, harder, like iron. When he dismounted, I saw his hand—tiger's mouth, palm, fingertips—all calluses, a thick layer, like armor.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"I am ready."
I looked at him. He stood before me, in casual clothes, no crown. That scar on his face reflected a pale pink light under the candle flame, very shallow, but I saw it. His hand hung by his side, clenching, then releasing.
"I know," I said.
"And you?"
"I am ready too."
He reached out, taking my hand. His hand was very rough, palm with thin calluses, the callus at the tiger's mouth pressing against my hand. But that hand was hot. Hot like charcoal fire in winter.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"Next spring—we fight."
"Good."
Outside the window, Chang'an's winter had come. The wind blew from the north, carrying the scent of snow. The willow trees outside the palace walls were bare, branches stretching toward the sky like unsheathed blades. On the distant steppes, the Xiongnu were waiting. Waiting for the snow to melt, for the grass to grow, for the horses to fatten. They did not know that in the city of Chang'an, there was a sixteen-year-old Son of Heaven, waiting for spring. He wasn't waiting for the snow to melt, but for the blade to be sharp.
[End of Chapter 35]