It took her seven days on horseback to reach the capital—fast enough to bruise bone, slow enough to keep her soldiers breathing.
Lin Ruoyi entered Liang's gates just before dusk. Dust danced on wind-worn banners, and her horse's hooves echoed like drums against stone. The city bowed as she passed.
She didn't bow back.
Not to tower guards saluting.
Not to the citizens kneeling in the snow.
Not even to the emperor's crest hanging high above the gates.
She'd seen it all before. Reverence never impressed her.
Not after what war had taken.
She was tired. Not from travel, not from peace talks.
From something quieter.
Something she couldn't name.
Her brother waited at the eastern barracks.
Lin Ruochen—eighteen, sharp-eyed, silent as ever. He stood at attention as she approached, but the worry in his gaze betrayed him.
"You're late," he said. "I thought something had happened."
"It nearly did," she replied, dismounting. "The Third Prince of Yan has a way with words."
He handed her a flask of warm ginger water. "Did you kill him?"
"Not yet."
But something flickered behind her eyes. A face.
Golden eyes. Cold breath. Soft voice. Too close. Too steady.
Ruochen caught the change.
He glanced at the bloodied bandage peeking beneath her cloak. "And that?"
"A parting gift. He healed it."
"He touched you?" His brows lifted slightly. "That doesn't sound like you."
"Would you rather I bled out?"
"Honestly? I'm not sure which outcome would confuse me less."
She smirked, but the tiredness didn't leave her face.
He didn't press further. But his eyes didn't leave her side.
Her chambers welcomed her with steam and silence.
The moment the door closed, she stripped away her armor—piece by piece—until only her breath remained. Her braid fell loose. Her reflection stared back from the bronze mirror: bloodless, pale, sharp.
She looked the same.
But she felt… wrong.
Like her skin was too small.
Like she'd once had wings—and forgot how they broke.
Her maid entered with a court physician. The woman peeled back her bandages, gasping quietly.
"This is… healed," she whispered. "Beautifully. Who...?"
"Yan's prince," Ruoyi said flatly. "Apparently, he has many skills."
When they were gone, she sat in the quiet. The mirror still watched her.
And she hated that it felt like someone else was looking through her own eyes.
She was summoned before nightfall.
But not by the emperor—not yet.
She found herself first in the moon garden, face-to-face with the Crown Prince of Liang.
Liang Zhen wore pale silk, no armor. He was handsome—fine-boned, elegant, a man sculpted by legacy. His voice was calm. His gaze steady.
But she felt nothing.
"General Lin," he greeted, stepping forward. "You returned. In one piece."
"Your Highness," she said with a nod.
"I heard you were wounded."
"Minor."
His eyes narrowed. "Who did it?"
"Does it matter?"
He didn't answer that.
Instead, he said, "I don't like knowing another man marked you."
She looked at him then, eyes flat.
"You don't own me."
"We've known each other since we were children—"
"And I've said no. Repeatedly. So let it stay no."
He took a step forward, brushing her braid over her shoulder—not possessive. Just… familiar.
"You're the most powerful woman in Liang," he said softly. "But even power must choose a direction."
She didn't reply.
But something about his touch made her skin itch.
When Yan's prince had stood inches from her, she hadn't wanted to flinch.
Here, she wanted distance.
She entered the throne room after.
The emperor sat with furrowed brows, the treaty scroll open before him. She knelt, silent, and waited for the inevitable.
"The first two terms are clever," he said. "Physicians and retreat. They make Yan look generous."
Then his voice hardened.
"But the third—marriage?"
He looked up.
"What do they think we are? So weak we would sell you off for peace?"
Ruoyi remained silent.
The emperor's expression softened. "You've done enough, General Lin. Rest. Court reconvenes in seven days. Until then, recover."
She bowed.
That night, sleep came like a thief.
Her dream came in fragments—images layered over emotion.
Fire.
Stars collapsing.
A sword glowing white-hot in her hands.
And a man—his voice lost in the wind but still calling her name. Over and over.
"Yin Ruo…"
She gasped awake, throat tight. Sweat clung to her neck.
Across the room, her golden whip—silent for years—hummed faintly. The edges glowed. Not brightly. But enough.
Like it remembered something she didn't.
Like it was waiting.