After travelling east for what felt like endless hours, we finally arrived at Fúlì Zhōu's provincial capital, Shíyuán—Stone Garden. The name promised serenity, yet the winter chill clung to every surface, stiff and biting. Though the famous rice fields I had read about lay dormant, brown and brittle beneath frost's grasp, the city itself was undeniably lovely. The architecture hummed with quiet elegance: bridges over frozen canals, terraces lined with low stone walls, and lanterns that caught the sunlight and reflected faint, muted rainbows onto the snow-speckled streets.
People went about their business as if the distant battles were nothing but a fevered dream. Merchants arranged wares with careless cheer, children ran laughing through icy courtyards, and scholars whispered over scrolls on frost-tipped steps. Each cheerful face struck a discordant note in me; anger coiled in my chest. How could they carry on while people died far beyond these walls? Was it ignorance? Do they not know Or just the survival instinct that had carried all of us through marsh, mud, and blood?
The sun hovered above the horizon, pale but piercing, casting long, sharp shadows that cut through the streets like knives. Even in the sunlight, the cold bit deep, crystallizing the breath of pedestrians in silver clouds. Every frost-specked surface—rooftop, fence, frozen puddle—reflected the warmth of light without actually giving any. Beauty and danger coexisted in the air like a warning.
"Princess, we have arrived," Emem announced as the carriage eased to a stop, wheels crunching against frost-hardened gravel.
"I am not a princess," I corrected sharply, still annoyed at the repeated misconception.
"But you are from the Shuǐlóng Zú clan, are you not?" he said, a smug tilt to his tone, as if lineage must always equal royalty.
"I am from the Yuèlóng cadet family of that clan," I said, my voice calm but precise. "Not a princess."
As we stepped down from the carriage and approached the mansion before us — a structure of polished stone and vibrant paints that somehow defied winter's dulling touch — Emem tilted his head, his elven ears flicking with that subtle irritation he rarely showed openly.
"Tell me something," he said, gesturing lazily at the bustling town we had gone through. "Why do these people call themselves the 'Horse Clan' when they resemble Ipotanes more than anything equine?"
His breath fogged in the air, a scoff hidden inside it.
"Clans. Titles. Old names mortals cling to so they don't have to admit how hollow their systems are. Don't expect the capital to be any wiser."
Before I could respond, he clicked his tongue and flicked the reins. The carriage lurched forward, rolling away as he resumed his light, melodic whistle — the kind that sounded carefree until you caught the undertone of someone who had outlived entire political cycles and grown bored of all their illusions.
I exhaled, catching up to Victoria and Paige. Victoria's eyes were wide, drinking in every detail: the frozen pools reflecting pale skies like shards of glass, the intricate latticework along the eaves, the frost clinging to every surface without diminishing its elegance.
Inside, the mansion was a world apart. The chill of winter seemed to vanish the moment we stepped through the doors. Warmth wrapped around us like a soft cloak; the air carried the smoky sweetness of burning incense mingled with faint floral undertones. Victoria tilted her head, sniffing delicately. "What is that? It smells… lovely."
Paige, ever precise, didn't miss a beat. "I presume you mean the agarwood," she said, guiding us further in. "The rose is easier to distinguish."
The mansion's lighting—tall lanterns, translucent panels catching the sun at just the right angle—made it seem as if twilight were eternal. Shadows softened and every corner seemed deliberately placed to evoke calm, contemplation, and subtle power. Each polished stone floor whispered under our feet, a reminder that this space was both lived-in and meticulously maintained.
We arrived at a large set of doors, dark wood carved with flowing geometric patterns. Paige knocked lightly, three quick raps in rhythm that seemed both courteous and commanding. My pulse quickened. The place demanded acknowledgment, reverence even, as if the building itself recognized who was worthy to step across its threshold.
The door opened to a study that smelled of old paper, ink, and faint sandalwood. Behind a cluttered desk sat a woman half-buried in books and papers that nonetheless appeared organized by some system only she understood. She glanced at us without surprise, her eyes sharp, calculating, assessing our posture, our readiness, and perhaps the tension barely concealed in our bodies.
Paige guided us to a sitting area. I took in the space: shelves overflowing with texts on strategy, philosophy, and art; vibrant rugs that absorbed sound; brass and glass ornaments catching the afternoon light. Victoria sank onto a cushion, arms wrapped around a throw pillow, burying her head as though the object alone could shield her from the shadows of recent battles.
The woman behind the desk wore a floral-print sari that draped elegantly over her frame. Her posture was relaxed, yet the faint arch of her brow suggested nothing escaped her notice. Her bindi, shaped like a delicate lotus, shimmered faintly in the light, drawing my gaze with its symmetry. The sight was oddly calming.
Paige, nose in a book, seemed almost at home. Victoria tried to relax into her pillow's warmth. I exhaled fully for the first time in days, letting the weight of alertness ease slightly. The woman behind the desk continued her call without urgency, though it was obvious her mind cataloged, assessed, and prepared—even as she spoke softly into the receiver.
I focused on small, grounding details: the faint resin from the incense, the rustle of pages, the way sunlight caught the edge of a manuscript. My thoughts circled the unknown: what could this woman offer us? How much did she know about the dangers still hunting us? How many of Shíyuán's citizens were already ensnared in webs invisible to outsiders like us?
Eventually, she hung up, expression unreadable. There was no hostility, only the weight of awareness, a calm that suggested a mind accustomed to turbulence and chaos. Paige continued reading quietly, Victoria adjusted her pillow, and I watched, alert but cautiously relaxed. The mansion seemed to pulse softly, walls and floor imbued with history, the kind that whispered lessons only to those who paid attention.
I let my hands rest in my lap, Victoria beside me, her warmth grounding my thoughts. For the first time since leaving Húmāo Zhōu, I allowed a flicker of calm. The journey had been brutal, terrifying, disorienting—but here, amid the scent of agarwood and soft golden light, I felt the faintest glimmer of hope.
It wasn't naive. Danger lurked beyond these walls. Battles awaited. Contracts demanded their toll. The dead would not rest quietly. Yet in this moment, the world felt manageable. The hum of life, the soft crackle of firewood, even the muffled city sounds beyond the walls—all offered a strange sense of stability.
The woman finally rose from her desk with a cup of tea in hand, moving toward her bookshelf with the serene confidence of someone who understood her place in the world—and perhaps the world beyond. Each step was precise, measured, yet carried a subtle authority that left no doubt she was the one who held control here.
This was only the beginning, I realized. The calm was temporary, the peace fragile. But for now, within the sanctuary of the Stone Garden mansion, I could gather my thoughts, steady my heart, and prepare for whatever awaited us outside these walls.