It had been at least two years since the last time he had ridden a horse such a long distance, and he was starting to feel tired of it. Having departed from the Imperial City roughly an hour to midday, the moon was up now, in its late waxing phase, and he had crossed the border two or three hours ago. The stallion had been walking for some time, and Zhisen did not want to exhaust it so much that they would take twice as long to make it to the steppe. He looked ahead, wondering if there was any well-covered place to make camp.

The road was on the north side shielded by a long row of trees planted between the packed dirt and the rice paddies, but on the southern side there was a thin forest. He squinted at a cluster of pines, thinking that could be a good place— but he saw that there was someone camping there already, red light coming from between the trees. With a sigh, Zhisen tugged on the reins to keep the stallion on a forward path. He could camp in the open, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

The silver moonlight stretched ahead of him like a pale river rippling with cartwheel marks, and it reminded him of the first time he had seen the Igtze River as a child, its crimson silt making it look like blood. Don’t be afraid, Ziying had said with a smile, and taken him to the bank. Look, cup the water in your hands. See? It’s clean and pure. But the red silt makes a good disguise. You should remember this when you’re older— be pure of heart, but show only power outwardly.

Zhisen’s mouth had a bitter taste. If only you took your own advice, brother.

It would have been like any other evening if he spent it thinking of Ziying and wishing that the past four years were just a cruel nightmare to wake up from— but from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a sudden flash of movement. Silver streaked through the night, close to the ground, followed by the twang of a bowstring. Zhisen tightened his grip on the reins and pulled the horse to a stop just before an arrow pierced the path ahead of its hooves.

The stallion made a noise of surprise and walked a few steps backward. Although Zhisen held the reins tightly and tried to find the source of the arrow, another shriek of steel pierced the air again, and this time it struck the road too close for comfort. The stallion reared on its hind legs, staggering back— Zhisen removed his feet from the stirrups and pushed himself away from the horse, managing to put his left boot on the saddle in time to propel himself a little. Hoping he would land out of trampling range, he turned his body in the air, landing forcefully on his left foot. He bent his knee to crouch, skidding sideways until he could dig his right heel into the dirt.

The stallion was running toward the steppe at breakneck speed and the blunt end of a spear was plunging through the night toward his forehead. Zhisen already had a hand on the hilt of his sword, and unsheathed it in time to knock the spear out of the way. Its wielder sidestepped, and Zhisen took the opportunity to get to his feet, parrying the next blow more cleanly, going on the offensive. He made all of three steps forward, his blade scarring the wooden staff, before the spearman danced away from him to put some distance between them. He flipped his staff around and showed its long, curved blade. Zhisen startled at the sight of it. It can’t be—

There wasn’t time to think it through— his attacker unleashed a flurry of blows in such a quick succession that he might have been dancing. His polearm sliced the air like a swooping eagle’s talons, wickedly sharp and powerful with each blow, its blade ringing out beneath the bright moon. Zhisen might have admired his artistry if he was not certain that this was all a misunderstanding of sorts— was it?— most likely because Zhisen was wearing a helmet.

“Pardon me—” Zhisen managed, then had to pause and parry again. The flat of his blade moaned with protest as the force of the blow scraped it. Zhisen sidestepped the next attack by turning away, stepping back with only his left foot. He straightened his spine and lifted his right elbow— the spearman stepped back to dodge the blow toward his chin, but Zhisen stepped on his foot. The curse that answered him was one of the bitterest in the Erdeni tongue, and when he lifted his sword again, he barely caught the answering blow in time, directed as it was for his shoulder.

For a moment, their eyes met, the curved blade screeching against Zhisen’s sword, too close to his face for comfort. Then, Zhisen let his grip loosen enough for the spear to swing toward his face— but he bent backward, avoiding the wound and knocking the spear further along its wide arc with his sword. Having put some distance between them, Zhisen extended his sword between them with a straight arm. “Stop, hold on,” Zhisen said, then cursed himself for forgetting to switch to Erdeni and make it more obvious that he wasn’t an ordinary soldier.

Inalchi did stop, bringing his spear back to his side. Zhisen could make out the colourful strings and uncut turquoise charms at the base of his spear’s blade, now— there was no mistaking his identity. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

He barely finished ‘misunderstanding’ before Inalchi moved again, with such swiftness that Zhisen could not react in time. The wooden side of the spear eclipsed the moonlit road.

Everything went dark.