The world ended in a wall of ice.
For two days the road climbed through black pines; then the trees fell away and the fortress loomed—carved into a frozen waterfall older than the empire itself.
Sunlight struck the ice-crust and shattered into needles of glare.
Lan Yue narrowed her eyes, counting murder-holes, drawbridge chains, banners snapping like cracking bones.
The Wolf banner—grey on white—bore a single red paw-print.
Blood on snow.
Bai Feng raised his hand; the column halted.
"Welcome to Ice-Lock," he said, voice echoing off the cliff. "The King awaits his guest."
The Bridge
A drawbridge of iron-banded planks spanned a chasm so deep the bottom lay in shadow.
Wind howled across it, rocking the horses.
Half-way over, the mare beneath Yue shied; ice coated the planks like glass.
She slipped from the saddle and led the animal on foot, each step a promise not to look down.
Behind her, imperial guards followed; ahead, northern archers watched from turrets, bows relaxed but arrows nocked.
She felt their eyes linger on the black-jade circlet at her throat—the pearl glowing against snow-bright armour.
Three trials, she reminded herself. Stay alive long enough to see them.
The Courtyard
They entered a vast hexagon of stone open to the sky.
Drifts of snow powdered the flagstones; frozen fountains stood like statues mid-scream.
At the far end, a throne of black basalt—raw, unadorned—waited beneath a canopy of wolf pelts.
On it sat the Wolf King.
He was younger than songs suggested—perhaps thirty winters—but his eyes were old.
Hair the colour of storm-clouds hung in plaits threaded with silver rings; a single scar crossed his left cheek, pale as moon.
He wore no crown; the throne itself proclaimed him.
Bai Feng knelt. "The swan arrives, my king."
Yue stepped forward, removed her fur hood, and offered the shallow bow of equal emissary—per protocol Han had drilled into her bones.
"Lan Yue, bearer of the Empress Dowager's seal, greets the King of the Northern Mountains."
A murmur swept the courtyard—surprise she used his self-styled title, not the court's insulting "rebel chieftain."
The King studied her, expression unreadable.
"So the south sends a child in armour to barter peace. Tell me, child, do you know my name?"
"Your people call you Khan Orbai," she answered. "The empire records you as Fourth Prince Orbai of the Northern Marches, stripped of banner after the Salt Tax Rebellion."
His mouth twitched—amusement or annoyance.
"Memory is a blade. Hold it by the right end." He rose. "You will rest. At dawn the trials begin. Fail, the ice keeps your bones. Succeed, the gates of grain open." He glanced at the circlet. "And perhaps the pearl finds a throat worthy of its shine."
Guest Tower — night
A single brazier fought the chill. Frost painted the inside of the barred window.
She sat cross-legged, sharpening her short sword, when the door opened without knock.
Liang Ying entered, carrying a tray of hot broth.
"They watch from the stair," she murmured, setting the tray down. "Eat. You'll need strength."
Yue kept her voice low. "What are the trials?"
"Traditional—body, mind, heart. First: The Path of Knives—cross a frozen cataract on blades while archers loose at random. Second: The Riddle of Bones—solve a death-song the shamans sing over wolf skulls. Third..." Ying hesitated. "No one knows until they face it. Survivors never speak; the King seals their tongues with gold or grave."
Yue sipped broth; spices burned, then warmed.
"Why does he need imperial blood if he already rules?"
"Legitimacy," Ying said. "With an imperial bride he can claim the south bleeds into him—unify without endless war. A child of both snow and jade would quiet many clans still loyal to the dragon."
She met Yue's eyes. "Do not trust his gentleness. Mercy is a tactic he stores for winter."
Before leaving, Ying pressed a small vial into Yue's palm—blue liquid thick as honey.
"Numbs one wound, one only. Use when no eyes watch."
Dawn — the courtyard
Torches hissed in grey light.
The entire garrison ringed the walls—imperial guards forced to stand among them, hands on hilts but blades sheathed.
Khan Orbai descended the throne steps, fur cloak snapping.
"First trial: Path of Knives. Cross the falls, touch the wolf stone on the far ledge, return. Fall, you feed the river. Begin when ready."
Two warriors pulled aside a wooden hatch; mist billowed up, carrying the roar of water.
Yue stepped forward and looked down.
A frozen waterfall—thirty paces wide—its surface carved into narrow ridges: up-turned sword blades set in ice, edges bare.
Across the gorge a jutting rock bore the red paw-print of the clan.
Below, the river foamed between jagged teeth of ice.
Randomly, drummers beat a rhythm; at each beat, archers on the towers would loose—no pattern, no warning.
Her mouth dried, but she unbuckled her cloak—weight killed here.
She flexed fingers inside leather gloves, tested ankle wraps, then stepped onto the first blade.
Cold bit through soles.
She shifted weight—outside edge of foot, knees bent, centre low—like walking the narrow beams of the palace yard a thousand times.
Drum—thunk! An arrow skimmed her sleeve, sparked on ice.
She did not flinch; movement was death.
Step, breathe, step.
The mist swallowed sound; her world narrowed to silver edge and red target ahead.
Half-way, a blade cracked underfoot—she lurched, dropped low, palm slapping ice for balance.
Another arrow hissed—ripped her sleeve but missed flesh.
She forced calm: roots heavier than wings.
She reached the wolf stone, slapped it hard—claiming—and turned.
Return was harder: uphill, legs trembling, archers now aiming for a moving target.
An arrow grazed her calf—sting of fire on frozen skin.
She kept moving, counting breaths, until her boot hit stone of the courtyard.
Cheers erupted—some genuine, some reluctant.
She knelt, gasping, blood threading down her boot.
Khan Orbai's eyes glittered.
"Steel in the legs, ice in the veins. One trial done. Rest. At sunset the bones will sing."
Infirmary — midday
A shaman woman cleaned the cut with snow-melt and spirits.
"Not deep," she muttered. "Pride bleeds more than flesh."
Yue accepted stitches in silence, mind racing.
Second trial: mind against shamans' riddle.
She had until dusk to prepare—and no idea what question the bones would ask.
She touched the vial Ying had given—still sealed.
Save it, she decided. The worst wound may be the one no blade makes.
Sunset — the Hall of Skulls
Drums of wolf-hide throbbed under torches.
In a circle of salt and ash sat nine shamans, faces painted half-white, half-black.
Between them: a low altar of interlocked wolf skulls, each socket stuffed with herbs that smoked in lazy coils.
Khan Orbai gestured.
"Second trial: Riddle of Bones. Listen, answer true, walk free. Answer false, the bones keep your shadow."
The head shaman lifted a flute of carved femur and blew—a note high and cold.
The skulls seemed to stir; smoke formed vague shapes: antler, claw, crown.
A chant rose, words older than the empire:
"I am the eater that feeds the eaten.
I am the cradle that rocks the grave.
I am the silence between heartbeats.
Name me, and the river opens."
Silence fell; every torch leaned inward, waiting.
Yue stepped into the circle. Salt crunched under her boots.
She stared at the smoke shapes—antler (prey), claw (predator), crown (ruler).
Three faces of the same force.
She thought of the waterfall: blades that cut, river that swallowed, mist that hid.
She thought of the empire: jade throne feeding on lives, lives feeding the throne.
Her mouth opened; the answer breathed out:
"Time. You are Time."
A collective inhale swept the hall.
The shaman's eyes widened, then closed in respect.
He laid the flute across the skulls and bowed.
Smoke thinned; the salt circle remained unbroken.
Khan Orbai exhaled, the first sound he had made.
"Two trials. One remains. At first light, we walk the moon-bridge. There the heart is weighed."
He turned away, cloak swirling, leaving Yue standing among bones that now hummed her name.
Guest tower — deep night
She sat by the frost-laced window, leg bandaged, mind racing.
Two victories—yet the third trial loomed, the one no survivor described.
A soft knock. She expected Ying; instead the door opened to Khan Orbai himself, alone, unarmed.
He entered, closed the door, then knelt opposite her—equal height, unexpected.
For a long moment he simply studied her face, as though searching for something lost.
Finally he spoke, voice quiet.
"My mother was imperial-born. She died in a southern cage they called 'guest chambers'. I was eight. I remember her singing lullabies in your court tongue while snow outside swallowed the world."
Yue's throat tightened. She said nothing.
He continued. "I built Ice-Lock to keep the south out. Yet the south keeps walking in—first my blood, now you. Tell me, swan-child: if I offer you the third trial and you refuse, will you sing lullabies to a child who will never see the south?"
The question hung like frost between them—personal, dangerous, raw.
She found her voice. "I will sing whatever keeps the child alive, Khan. But lullabies should not be shackles. Let the bridge be walked, and we will see whose heart breaks first."
His scar whitened; then, astonishingly, he smiled—small, genuine.
"So be it. Sleep, little south-star. Dawn weighs everything."
He rose, left as silently as he came.
Outside, the moon-bridge waited—a span of ice and legend where the final trial would decide whether she rode home with spring, or stayed forever beneath the wolf's sky.
She closed her eyes, hand over the twin seals: dragon, swan.
One more dawn, she promised herself. One more dawn to turn a gambit into victory.
The frost on the window thickened, writing unknown futures across the glass.