The White Banner arrived at noon—five thousand heavy cavalry in snow-lamellar, hooves drumming like thrown hammers.
At their head rode Second Prince-General Wei Lian: same imperial blood as Shen, different mother, same ambition sharpened to a blade.
His cloak was white fox lined with crimson silk; when it billowed it looked like a wound opening across the sky.
He drew rein in the outer bailey, dismounted without waiting for the stirrup boy, and smiled—a smile that shaved iron.
Every stable-hand within ten paces felt colder.
Lan Yue was tightening her new scout saddle when the gates thundered open.
She straightened, reins in teeth, watching the white column snake across the yard.
Wei Lian's gaze found her the way a hawk finds a lone sparrow: head tilt, instant calculation.
He walked over, boots silent on fresh straw, trailing officers like comet-tails.
"Lieutenant Lan, is it?"
He spoke softly; still, the nearest groom caught every syllable.
"I witnessed your miracle shot by proxy—arrow-split-arrow.
Talent deserves a wider stage than frozen goat-tracks."
He produced a bow from his own saddle—jade-inlaid reflex, horn and sinew married by master craftsmen.
"Serve under my banner; you'll ride at major-captain rank, triple pay, personal retinue."
The bow caught winter sun and threw it back like a challenge.
She wiped straw from her gloves, met his gaze straight.
"I already have a banner, Highness.
And a debt to repay in the van."
Wei Lian's smile thinned—cat refused cream—but he inclined his head.
"Offer stands until the first snowstorm.
After that, the sky chooses who it keeps."
He turned away before she could salute, cloak brushing her knee—a whisper of fox-fur and threat.
Armoury Corridor, Dusk
Lan carried a fresh quiver past the racks when a shadow detached itself—Wei Lian again, alone this time.
Torches hissed; their light painted moving bars across his face.
"You mistake shelter for safety," he murmured.
"My cousin will break whatever he loves rather than see it taken.
Ask the late Governor of Yan-shui—oh wait, you cannot; the man hanged himself after one reprimand from Shen."
She halted, hand on dagger hilt.
"Are you here to warn me, or recruit me?"
"Both.
Either.
Neither."
He stepped closer; the torch-flame guttered between them.
"I want the sky, Lieutenant.
So does Shen.
The difference?
I share my prizes; he hoards them until they suffocate."
Footsteps echoed—Shen's voice calling her name from the far end.
Wei Lian faded back into shadow, last words drifting.
"Think quickly, archer.
Winter is a jealous prince."
Stone Stair, Nightfall
She found Shen atop the eastern wall, silhouette cut against aurora.
He held a wax-tablet, supply figures half-erased by wind.
Without turning:
"Did he proposition you?"
"Offered rank and a prettier bow."
She joined him at the parapet.
"I declined."
Shen's exhale clouded, obscuring his face.
"He always starts with gifts.
Ends with graves."
He snapped the tablet shut.
"Stay clear of him on the march.
White Banner rides east tomorrow; we ride west.
Different roads, same war."
She started to answer when a trumpet blew—one long, two short: courier arriving under emergency seal.
They descended together, shoulders brushing once—accidental, electric.
Courier's Dispatch
Imperial scroll, vermilion ink still warm:
Stone-Coffin Pass had fallen by treachery; Wei Lian's new sector.
The White Banner would have to retake it before joining the western front—alone, because Shen's Black Banner was already committed to Ice-Ridge Ford.
Wei Lian read the scroll in the torch-yard, smile never wavering.
He looked up, found Lan among the officers, lifted the jade bow in silent salute—promise or farewell, no one could tell.
Shen's murmur brushed her ear:
"See?
The sky he wants keeps biting back."
Midnight, Stables
Lan saddled her own mare, checking shoes for frost-calks.
A soft step—Wei Lian once more, cloak swapped for plain scout-grey, hood shadowing his face.
He pressed a small token into her palm:
a white-jade arrowhead, silk-wrapped.
"For when you change your mind.
Shoot it into air; my men will find you."
Before she could refuse he was gone, melting into the crunch of departing hooves.
She tucked the arrowhead into her belt-pouch—not acceptance, reminder of danger worn close to skin.
Shen appeared at the stable door, watching the last White Banner rider vanish into blowing snow.
He said nothing of the exchange; only stepped beside her, testing her girth-strap with one brisk tug.
"Ride point at dawn," he told the mare more than her.
"Bring her back whole; the river owes me interest."
Lan swung up, reins light.
"Debt acknowledged, General."
Outside, the wind shifted—carrying the scent of two banners, two princes, one sky too small for both.