Dawn came steel-blue, the sun a dull coin behind ice-fog.
The keep's gates yawned like stone jaws, spitting the procession onto a cliff path that ended in nothing—only sky and a bridge that wasn't there.
Then the wind shifted, and she saw it:
a single arch of clear ice, as thick as a man's thigh, curving across the gorge to a needle of rock on the far side.
No rails, no ropes. Mid-way, a slab of black stone waited—an altar.
Below, darkness and the roar of a river no eye could see.
The third trial: Heart-weighing on the Moon-Bridge.
Survive the crossing, answer the question the altar asks, return before the sun cleared the peaks.
Fail, and the bridge melted at noon by secret springs beneath—a clock of falling water.
Khan Orbai stood aside, hooded against wind.
"Walk, swan-child. When you step back onto this cliff, you will be wolf or dragon—or nothing."
Imperial guards stirred; Captain Han's hand brushed his sword.
Yue shook her head—no rescue. This was single combat with ice and self.
She drew a breath that knifed her lungs, tightened the white-lacquoured armour, and stepped onto the bridge.
The Crossing
Ice groaned, a deep whale-song.
Each pace cracked micro-fractures that spider-webbed outward.
She kept to the centre, knees bent, weight soft—like balancing on a blade.
Half-way, the wind rose, slapping her cloak like a sail.
She unclasped it—let the garment spiral into the abyss—less drag, less weight.
The black altar drew closer.
Carved into its top: a balance scale, pans empty, and beneath it a single line in old northern runes.
She knelt, brushed snow from the letters.
They shifted, rearranging under her touch—the question formed:
"Place upon the scale that which you most fear to lose.
Let it weigh against the realm.
If your heart tilts the balance, the bridge keeps you.
If the realm outweighs your heart, the bridge breaks."
A trick of magic or mechanics—she couldn't tell.
But she understood: whatever she laid down would be gone—swallowed by stone, river, or spell.
She opened her pouch:
Swan seal (duty)Dragon token (Shen)Bone whistle (hope)Vial of blue numb-liquid (last mercy)Pearl-circlet (the wolf's claim)
Her fingers trembled—not from cold.
What do I most fear to lose?
Images flashed:
Zhao Shen's quiet laugh on a rooftop; her father teaching her first sword form; the palace children chasing lanterns; the promise she whispered to a paper boat—roots heavier than wings.
But the realm was every child in every province, every farmer who trusted the throne to keep famine and fire away.
If she chose self, she might live—but the north would call the south faithless, war certain.
If she chose realm, she might lose the only heartbeat that kept her human.
Tears froze on her lashes.
She lifted the dragon jade—the piece that held Shen's voice, his promise, the future they had never dared name aloud.
That which she most feared to lose—because it was hers, not the empire's.
She set the token on the left pan.
The scale clanged, stone grinding.
Right pan descended—realm victorious.
Left pan rose, flinging the jade upward—then swallowed it, stone lips closing like a mouth.
A crack echoed beneath her knees—the bridge shivered.
She lurched to her feet, horror blooming.
The altar sank, satisfied.
Ahead, hairline fractures raced outward—the bridge dying.
No time.
She ran.
Return
Each stride punched a hole; icy water spat up, slicking the surface.
Twenty paces—fifteen—
A slab gave way behind her, collapsing into roar.
Wind screamed—sun still not cleared the peaks—time remained, but only heartbeats.
Ten paces—
Her boot slipped; she dropped, palms slamming ice, sliding.
Fingernails scraped, found purchase—she hauled, legs kicking.
Five.
The cliff edge—Khan Orbai's outstretched hand—
She leapt—fingers locked around his wrist—he yanked.
She crashed onto rock as the entire bridge folded like glass, cascading into mist.
Silence.
Then the gorge answered with a long, hollow thunder—water finishing what fear began.
Aftermath
She lay gasping, cheek against cold stone, wrist stinging where his grip had been iron.
Boots surrounded her—imperial, northern.
No one spoke; the air itself seemed to wait.
Khan Orbai knelt, lifted her chin.
His eyes searched—found emptiness where the jade had lived.
Softly, so only she heard:
"The realm outweighed your heart. The bridge accepted the price."
She could not answer—throat closed around a loss too large for sound.
He stood, addressing the crowd.
"Three trials: blade, mind, heart—all passed. By law of snow and claw, the swan is free to fly or stay. Gates will open at sunset."
Cheers erupted—imperial guards first, tentative, then northerners, respectful.
But the sound reached her through wool, distant, meaningless.
Guest tower — late afternoon
She sat by the frost window, bandaging scraped palms.
The swan seal lay on the table—all that remained of her tokens.
Dragon gone, pearl irrelevant, whistle silent.
She had saved the realm a war she could not yet name, and felt amputated.
A knock—Liang Ying entered, eyes wide.
"You chose."
Yue nodded, unable to speak.
Ying exhaled. "He will not forget. The prince, I mean."
"He will never know," Yue whispered. "The stone took the token—no proof remains."
Ying knelt, placed something in her limp hand—a tiny flake of jade, chipped edge still warm from magic.
"I found it in the gorge spray. A splinter. Perhaps enough."
Yue closed her fist around the shard—a heartbeat in miniature.
Tears came, hot against cold cheeks.
Sunset — the gate
Khan Orbai waited in full armour, fur cloak new-fallen with snow.
Beside him, carts already loaded: grain sacks stamped with the wolf paw, tribute promised.
Imperial horses stamped, ready for the journey south.
He offered a scroll sealed with grey wax.
"Treaty—grain for two seasons, hostages exchanged, borders quiet. Add the swan's seal, and we part as reluctant kin."
She pressed the swan seal into wax—a soft thud of acceptance.
The realm secured; her heart missing.
Orbai studied her face.
"Should you ever tire of jade cages, Ice-Lock has a throne room that welcomes sharp tongues."
She inclined her head—polite, non-committal.
Inside, the shard of dragon jade cut against her palm—reminder, promise, wound.
The gate groaned open.
Imperial column formed; she mounted, eyes forward.
As hooves clopped onto the causeway, she glanced back once:
Khan Orbai stood alone beneath the arch, silhouette against blue snow, watching her go—a king who had weighed her heart and found it worthy, yet lost it to the same scale.
Night on the road — first camp
Stars glittered like scattered salt.
She sat apart, opened her palm: the jade splinter caught starlight—green fire in miniature.
She whispered to it, to the wind, to the absent prince:
"I gave away the piece of you I carried,
to buy a thousand children one more spring.
When I return, if you still offer roots—
I will plant what remains of my heart
and grow us wings strong enough for two."
She closed her fist, tucked the shard inside her shirt—against skin, above heartbeat.
Ahead lay weeks of winter road, court politics, and the unknown welcome of a prince who would never know the exact weight of what she had surrendered.
Behind lay the wolf's fortress, a bridge that no longer existed, and the echo of a choice that would haunt her dreams until someone taught her how to forgive herself.
Snow began to fall—soft, persistent—erasing hoofprints almost as quickly as they formed.
She rode forward anyway—because the realm was still breathing, and so was she.