Word of the vanished raiders spread like frost across the north. Caravans arrived heavier each day—families with carts piled high, eyes wide with hope and fear. "The untouchable land," they whispered. "Where even gods guard the gates."
I stood before them on the steps of Shadow Gorge's new throne hall, the air crisp with pine and promise. Thousands gathered below, faces weathered from roads and wars. No speeches of glory this time. Just truth.
"You come seeking safety," I said, my voice carrying clearly. "You stay if you build it with us. No lords above you. No taxes below. Work the land, train the walls, and teach your children. This is your home now."
Cheers rose ragged but real. Hammers rang by noon—new homes rising, fields cleared, forges lit. But growth brought shadows. A sovereign draws knives as surely as dawn draws light.
That's when Yue Zhilan became more than my guardian. She became a legend.
Not as some painted flower or silent wife. No. As a blade.
The first attempt came quietly, on a night when storm winds howled. A shadow slipped through the outer patrols—a Wu assassin, disguised as a refugee healer. Poison needle tipped with void essence, fast enough to kill saints.
He reached my chamber door at midnight. Raised his hand.
Yue Zhilan was there. Not inside with me, but sleeping across the hall—on cold stone outside the throne room itself, spear propped like a sentinel's post. Her silver eyes snapped open before the needle touched air.
One flick of her wrist. Moonlight coiled like a serpent, wrapping the intruder's throat. He gasped once, his body dissolving into silver mist. No blood. No sound. Gone.
By morning, only a faint scorch mark remained on the floor.
The second came bolder. Three Huang cultivators, cloaked in illusion arts, teleported past the demon borders. They struck during council—blades aimed at my back while Lin Dao spoke of grain stores.
Yue Zhilan moved like moonlight on water. Her spear didn't rise. She simply breathed. Space folded. The assassins crumpled mid-air, bones shattering under invisible pressure. Their illusions popped like soap bubbles.
Mo Han laughed as guards dragged the broken bodies away. "They never saw the queen."
"Queen?" I asked, eyebrow raised.
He shrugged. "She guards your throne like one. Let the world call her that."
Rumours started then. Whispers in taverns, songs from bards: the king cannot be touched. His queen sleeps on stone, wakes to kill.
A third try, weeks later. This one from within—an imperial prince's gold, slipped to a disgruntled smith. Poison in my evening tea, slow-acting but sure.
Yue Zhilan tasted it first—always did, though I never asked. One sip. Her eyes flashed. The cup froze mid-air, liquid turning to harmless ice crystals.
The smith confessed before dawn, trembling under her gaze. "Mercy, lady! They promised riches!"
She didn't speak. Just stared. He never spoke again.
By now, the north buzzed. Children drew her picture on walls—silver hair, spear like a falling star. Women left rice cakes outside the throne room at night, thanking the "Stone Queen" who never slept.
Yue Zhilan never complained. "It's quieter out here," she'd say, polishing her spear by lantern light. "Closer to the wind. I hear threats before they form."
One evening, after dragging away the fourth attempt—a Freeport shadow beast tamed by foreign mages—I sat with her outside the hall. Stars wheeled overhead. Guards patrolled at a distance, respectfully.
"You don't have to sleep on stone," I said. "Chambers are warm."
She smiled faintly, eyes on the horizon. "Comfort dulls the blade. And someone must watch while you dream of nations."
I chuckled. "The rumours call you queen now."
"Let them." She leaned back against the pillar. "Queens rule beside kings. Blades stay sharp at their side."
The world changed after that. Assassins stopped coming. Spies lingered at borders but never crossed. Even the Li Emperor sent no more "tests". His letters grew shorter and warmer: 'Protect what you've built, my son.' The north needs no watchers.
Foreign courts heard the tales. Wu's king burned scout reports. Huang's empress doubled her wards. Freeport whispered of curses.
In my domain, loyalty deepened. Farmers worked late, knowing no poison reached the granaries. Soldiers stood taller, proud of the queen who guarded their sovereign.
One dawn, as snow melted to spring mud, Yue Zhilan rose from her stone vigil. A faint glow clung to her armour—another quiet breakthrough, power coiling deeper.
"They're learning," she said simply.
I nodded. "Fear works. But loyalty lasts."
She glanced at me, silver eyes soft for once. "Then let me be both. Blade and queen."
From that day, no one entered Shadow Gorge without feeling her presence—like moonlight on water, beautiful and deadly. The throne room stood open, unguarded save for her shadow on the stone.
The king could not be touched. His queen ensured it.
And under that unbreakable watch, my nation grew—not in war cries, but in the quiet certainty that here, even death knocked first.