Pre-dawn, three days after the Midnight Race
Snow had fallen overnight—soft, deep enough to muffle the watch-bells.
Lan Yue woke before the drum, the torn swan pennant still knotted round her wrist, half-hidden beneath her sleeve.
She left the dormitory quietly, boots laced tight, and crossed the empty yard to the archery range.
The straw targets wore white hoods; the air tasted of iron and pine.
She wanted to practice with Shen's bow before the others stirred, to feel the heavier draw settle in her shoulder so the ache would feel familiar by first drill.
Footprints in the Snow
Footprints already marked the range—one set, long-strided, leading to the farthest target.
Zhao Yuan stood there in a dark cloak, sleeves pushed back, bare fingers red with cold.
He had driven a single arrow through the bull's-eye and into the post; now he worked to free it without snapping the shaft.
His breath clouded around him like a second cloak.
He glanced up when her shadow crossed the snow.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
"I wanted the quiet," she said.
He stepped aside, offered the arrow he had finally drawn out.
"Take it. First shot of the day should belong to the one who taught the bow to sing."
First Shot
She nocked, raised, loosed.
The shaft punched a finger's breadth from the previous hole.
Snow slid from the target's hat in the impact's echo.
They watched the fletching quiver, then looked at each other and laughed—short puffs of frost that drifted skyward.
"Tie?" he asked.
"Tie," she agreed.
Silence settled again, softer than the snow.
Yuan brushed flakes from his hair.
"About last night—sharing the flag. I meant it. We fly farther together."
She felt heat in her cheeks that had nothing to do with exercise.
"We're cadets, Yuan. Everything's training."
"Training for what comes after," he said.
"Winter, war, whatever the realm throws. I'd rather face it beside someone who can read my flank without words."
He paused, then added lightly,
"And someone whose laughter makes the cold feel like a dare."
The Crown Prince Arrives
Before she could answer, boots crunched behind them—Zhao Shen, cloak unclasped, hair still damp from washing.
His eyes took in the two of them standing close, the shared arrow, the fresh hole in the target.
He stopped a pace away, exhaling a measured cloud.
"Range opens at drum, not dawn," he said.
The words were mild, but the air tightened.
"We volunteered for early patrol," Yuan replied, half-grin.
"Targets misbehave at night."
Shen's gaze moved to Yue.
"Your shoulder?"
"Fine," she said, rolling it to prove the point.
It ached, but the motion was clean.
He nodded once.
"Good. Report to the armoury after breakfast. New climbing ropes arrived; I want your opinion on weight."
Yuan lifted a brow.
"Her opinion, or her approval?"
Shen met his brother's eyes.
"Both. She's lightest among seniors—if the rope fails her, it fails."
Brothers and Good-byes
Yuan shrugged, but the grin dimmed.
He turned to Yue.
"Breakfast, then. Before the porridge freezes."
He strode off, cloak sweeping snow into small comets.
Shen remained.
He looked at the arrow still in her hand.
"You kept the draw steady. That bow favours you."
"I'll care for it," she said.
"I know."
He hesitated, then spoke lower.
"Yuan means well. He always means well. But storms look playful until you're inside them."
She met his eyes.
"I can tell wind from lightning."
A flicker of something—worry, maybe regret—crossed his face.
"See that you can."
He left, footprints ruler-straight beside the chaotic trail Yuan had left.
Toward the Armoury
The drum began its slow roll across the yard.
Doors banged open; voices spilled into the white.
She stayed a moment longer, breathing the cold, feeling the bow's weight and the pennant's silk against her pulse—two different textures pulling in different directions.
Then she walked toward the armoury, each step crunching a fresh decision into the snow, knowing the path behind her would be covered by noon, and the ones ahead would ice over before night.