The northern winds had at last grown still. What once carried the scent of ash and blood now breathed the quiet air of victory. Across the frost-bitten plains, the banners of the Imperial Army swayed like living flame, their scarlet threads snapping against the dawn.
From a distance, the horizon gleamed the reflection of a thousand bronze helmets catching the sun as it rose over the northern ridges. Horses stamped upon the frozen earth, their breath turning to mist. The sound of drums rolled through the mountain pass, echoing down the long road home.
At the head of the column rode Emperor Xuan Li, sovereign of the Eastern Realm, conqueror of the northern rebellion. His armor was wrought of dark steel trimmed with silver, each plate etched with the curling motif of dragons in flight. Beneath the helm, a crown of gold glinted faintly, and his black hair, bound by a crimson ribbon, trailed in the wind.
His face bore the grace of command sharp-lined, calm, and severe yet the fatigue of war shadowed his eyes. Still, even in silence, his presence carried the weight of thunder; every soldier who rode behind him felt the pulse of power that seemed to move with his breath.
The imperial standard fluttered high a golden dragon soaring upon a field of crimson and beneath it, ten thousand soldiers marched in perfect unison. Spears lifted like a forest of silvered reeds. Armor gleamed like rivers of light. Victory drums thundered again, and the mountains themselves seemed to bow.
"The northern border is ours once more," murmured a commander beside him.
The Emperor only inclined his head. "Peace," he said quietly, "is never won it is merely bought by blood."
They rode south for seven days, their path lined with villages reborn from the ashes of war. Where smoke had once risen, new rooftops now shone under sunlight. Children ran along the roadside, waving branches of plum blossoms. Women, ladies spray petals of flower to welcome, bowing low as the column passed.
"Long live the Emperor!" the villagers cried.
"Long live the Dragon of the East!"
The air filled with the sound of joy the clash of cymbals, the beating of drums, and the laughter of people tasting peace again. From balconies and temple steps, silk ribbons streamed into the wind; petals of peony and chrysanthemum fell like rain upon the imperial road.
As they neared the capital, the city walls shimmered in the distance white stone gleaming beneath the morning sun, the golden roofs of the palace rising beyond like mountains of heaven. The city gates had been opened since dawn. Trumpets blared, announcing the army's return.
The Capital of Jianning had not seen such splendor in years. Every street was lined with citizens dressed in their finest robes; merchants hung lanterns of red and gold; temple monks stood with incense, chanting blessings for the Emperor's safe return. Even the old storytellers paused mid-tale to kneel, pressing their foreheads to the dust.
At the forefront of the welcoming procession, the Grand Marshal and the Imperial Chancellor waited, their robes heavy with embroidered dragons. Behind them, lines of palace officials, eunuchs, and ministers bowed in reverence as the imperial procession approached.
Then came the sound the roar of the crowd rising like the sea:
"The Emperor returns! Long live His Majesty! Long live the Throne!"
The Emperor reined his horse before the city gate. For a moment, the entire capital held its breath. The sunlight caught upon his armor, scattering silver fire across the air. His horse, a great stallion of pure black, pawed the ground and neighed as if sensing the glory of the moment.
With slow, deliberate grace, Emperor Xuan Li lifted his right hand and silence fell. The soldiers halted. The drums ceased. Only the wind whispered against the banners. He gazed upon his capital, upon the countless faces bowing before him faces that had known hunger, loss, hope, and now deliverance.
"Rise," his voice carried across the square deep, calm, and resonant.
"The people of the Eastern Realm have endured much. This victory belongs not to the crown, but to every soul who stood unyielding beneath Heaven's will."
The words struck the crowd like a wave. Tears glistened in the eyes of the old and young alike. Then the shouting began anew thunderous, unrestrained, alive. "Long live the Emperor! May the Dragon live ten thousand years!"
The petals fell thicker now, drifting down from balconies, from temple roofs, from the hands of young maidens who pressed red flowers against their hearts.
"He's so handsome!" one girl whispered, blushing behind her fan.
"Truly, the heavens favor him," said another, clasping her hands.
The Emperor did not smile, but a faint warmth flickered in his gaze. For beneath all the grandeur and roar of the people, he felt something deeper the faint tremor of fate shifting once more.
At the rear, the wounded were carried in decorated carriages, their armor cleaned and polished, their banners draped with golden silk. The citizens threw garlands over them too, chanting blessings for their safe recovery. Musicians followed, playing flutes and lutes that echoed through the marble streets like the call of immortals.
When the Emperor finally rode through the Gate of Heavenly Harmony, the final gate of the palace, the great bronze doors swung open with a deep, resonant groan. The courtyard beyond gleamed like liquid gold under the afternoon light.
Lines of imperial guards knelt on both sides, their spears crossed in salute. Palace eunuchs bowed until their foreheads touched the ground. From the high walls, doves scattered into the sky white wings flashing against the red banners of victory.
The Emperor dismounted. His boots touched the jade-inlaid stones, and the sound was soft, solemn, echoing through the silent court. He stood a moment, his gaze lifted toward the towering halls before him home once more after months of blood and storm.
"Under heaven's roar," he murmured, almost to himself, "the dragon returns."
The drums beat once, slow and deep the sound of triumph carved into eternity.
And thus ended the Northern Campaign.