The night wind whipped through the forest, carrying the scent of smoke and sorrow.
Princess Lianhua sat hunched beside a dying campfire, wrapped in a rough woolen cloak that did little to shield her from the cold. The fine silks of royalty were gone—left behind in the burning ruins of the palace. Her long, ink-black hair was matted with ash and blood, her hands blistered from the flight. But her eyes—those fierce, ember-bright eyes—still burned with undimmed purpose.
General Wuchen crouched opposite her, sharpening his blade with steady hands. In his weathered face was the calm of a man who had seen too much war to flinch anymore. His armor, dented and bloodied, bore the golden insignia of the imperial guard—now a hunted mark.
"We must keep moving at dawn," he said without looking up. "Minister Jiafei will send riders north, west, even through the mountain passes. You're not just a threat to his throne. You're a symbol."
Lianhua's voice was low. "A symbol won't stop armies."
"No," Wuchen replied. "But a strategist might."
She looked at him. "You mean to train me?"
"You already fight with fire, Princess. What you lack is patience—and the ability to think like your enemies."
Lianhua turned her gaze upward. Through the trees, the moon floated pale and remote. "My mother once said that a true ruler must see the game board even in darkness."
"Then it's time you learned the rules," Wuchen said.
❖ ❖ ❖
By the third day of their flight, they reached a quiet village nestled in the shadow of Mount Liang, where cherry trees grew along broken stone walls. Here, the empire's name was spoken in whispers. News of the capital's fall traveled slowly, distorted by fear.
They were taken in by an old herbalist named Madam Song, a woman with sharp eyes and secrets buried in her silence. She knew Wuchen by name. "You owe me for thirty winters past," she said as she poured steaming broth into chipped porcelain bowls. "Now I return the favor."
Lianhua ate in silence, listening to the wind stir through the thatched roof. That night, Madam Song brought out a scroll of ancient military texts—tactics of Sun Zhao, the strategist-queen of the Eastern plains. Wuchen pointed to the faded ink diagrams with a calloused finger.
"Here," he said. "This is how you outmaneuver an army three times your size."
"And this?" Lianhua asked, her brow furrowing.
"A feint," Wuchen replied. "To show weakness is to bait arrogance."
They stayed for weeks.
Each morning, Lianhua trained—sword drills at dawn, horseback riding at noon, and tactical lessons until her hands cramped. She studied maps until her eyes ached, learned to gauge troop morale, read enemy terrain, and memorize supply chain routes.
At night, she sat by the fire, staring into the flames.
"I will not be a ghost queen," she murmured one evening.
"You will be a phoenix," Madam Song said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "But first, you must burn."
❖ ❖ ❖
Elsewhere, the empire's once-stable heartland was collapsing.
In the city of Ji'an, Minister Jiafei stood beneath the red banners of the new regime. His words stirred fear and obedience.
"We are in an age of chaos," he declared to his newly assembled council, "but order will return—through my hand."
He had crowned a puppet emperor, a boy with soft eyes and no spine, and now ruled through whispers, poison, and steel.
He heard rumors of the princess, of course. Whispers of a girl in exile, training in the shadows.
"She will return," he muttered, gazing over a map of the provinces. "The daughter of the dragon always returns."
He smiled coldly.
"And when she does… I will break her."