The gambler's den huddles like a rotten tooth in the crooked jaw of Pezijil's back alleys, its splintered door hanging askew as if kicked by a thousand drunken regrets. Dawn bleeds weak light through the haze of charcoal smoke and fermented barley, the air thick enough to chew. Somewhere beyond the sagging rooftops, the imperial capital stirs—hawkers bellowing, ox-carts groaning—but here, in this grime-streaked pocket of shadows, the only sounds are the clatter of empty bottles and the wet, labored breathing of a broken man.

San Lian slumps on a stone bench slick with mildew, his head lolling against the wall. A flask dangles from his limp fingers, its last drops staining the cobblestones the color of old blood. Jinhuang leans against the den's doorway, arms crossed, her boot tapping an impatient rhythm. She eyes the flask with disdain.

"You," Dukar says, voice steady. "Do you remember me? We met two days ago."

San Lian laughs. "Boy, I don't even remember today." He lifts the flask, frowns at its emptiness, and hurls it at a stray dog sniffing nearby. The creature yelps and flees, tail tucked. "But you've got his face. Bazhin's face." His voice cracks on the last word, a fissure of old rage.

Jinhuang snorts. "Your aim's worse than your breath, old man."

Dukar kneels with a hint of desperation. "Yes, you told me that last time too."

San Lian's bloodshot gaze drifts past him to Naci, who leans against a post with arms crossed. For a heartbeat, his face softens, the ghost of a younger man flickering beneath the wrinkles and grime. "Gods below. Gujel's eyes. Like staring into a cursed mirror."

Naci pushes off the post, her boots crunching gravel. "Mirrors don't talk back, old man." She crouches before him, close enough for the dagger at her hip to glint warningly. "But we do. Father told me about you. He said you would help me if I needed. Is that true?"

San Lian's laugh curdles into a cough. "That bastard." He spits the words like poison. He leans forward, the reek of rice wine clashing with the sharpness of his fury. "Twenty years I spent cleaning his messes. Twenty years! I buried his wife. I took care of his son. And now you—" He jabs a trembling finger at her nose. "You waltz in with his eyes and his pride and demand answers?"

Naci doesn't flinch. Her smile is a sickle. "Father seems like he was a funny man. I bet you have so many things to tell him. If you come with me, I can organize a meeting."

A snort escapes San Lian—unwilling, almost startled. "I'm too old for that. I would rather not see him again."

"Coward," Jinhuang mutters, earning a glare.

"I kept thinking about it since you told me the truth," Dukar interrupts. "Sis, do you remember the endless Moukopl military scrolls? 'Study tactics,' he'd say. 'A chief's mind is his sharpest blade.'" He tilts his head. "Strange lessons for a Tepr tribesman, no?"

Naci bursts out laughing. "Guess he was right on that one, though! They were valuable lessons!"

San Lian's voice drops, gravel grinding beneath a storm. "A general. A traitor. A man who traded one family for another. Did he ever wonder or care about what happened to us?"

Naci's smirk fades. For a heartbeat, her mask slips, revealing the girl beneath the khan. "Yes," she says quietly. "He never said anything, but I'm sure he did. When he knew I was coming to Pezijil, he revealed he was Moukopl and asked me to seek you out if I needed help. He wanted me to find his other family. To… update him."

San Lian stares at her, then clicks his tongue. "Gods, you're just like him. All charm and venom." He lurches to his feet, swaying like a storm-battered tree. Jinhuang rolls her eyes and shoves a shoulder under his arm to steady him. "You want to know what happened these past twenty years?" he growls. "Fine, I'll tell you!"

Puripal leans against a stall piled with jade trinkets, his posture lazily regal. His robe, a masterpiece of midnight silk threaded with silver, clings to his frame like shadow given form. Ta, perched on a barrel of fermented cabbages, tosses walnut shells in the air.

Temej lingers at the edge of the group. Fol stands rigid beside a cart, his knuckles white around the hilt of his dagger. Sweat beads on his brow despite the chill, his breath shallow, as if the air itself has turned to sand.

Lanau, ever the calm amid storms, selects a dried apricot from a vendor's tray and bites into it with deliberate slowness. "So," she says, wiping juice from her chin. "Caravan guards or caravan masters?"

Puripal's smile is a hook baited with charm. "Can't we be both?"

"Masters," Ta interjects. "Of everything. Silk, spices, secrets." He waggles his brows at Lanau. "Interested in a trade?"

"Depends." She nods at Puripal's sash, its silver threads catching the light. "You rob a royal tomb for that?"

Puripal chuckles, low and velvety. "A gift from a grateful client. A widow in Zenyu. Tragically, her husband drowned before he could object."

Temej snorts. "Convenient."

"Death often is."

Fol's boot grinds into the cobblestones, a harsh scrape that draws all eyes. "We're wasting time," he mutters, more to himself than the group. "Should've left at dawn. Should've—"

"Breathe, stone-face," Ta croons, hopping off the barrel. "You'll crack your precious scowl."

Fol's dagger flashes half-drawn, but Lanau steps between them, her voice a balm. "The desert sun's etched your skin," she says to Puripal, deftly redirecting. "Yohazatz traders, then? The Khan's brother mentioned the dunes."

A beat. Puripal's gaze sharpens, though his smile remains. "Observant."

"Opportunists," Temej adds.

"Intellectuals," Ta corrects, plucking a date from a passing tray and popping it into his mouth. The vendor shouts; Ta blows him a kiss.

Lanau tilts her head, studying Puripal. "You look like you've never missed a meal. Or a bath. Unlike your... companion. What is your name, again?"

"Luxury has its uses. It disarms." Puripal twirls a jade pendant on his finger. "For example… you're Tepr. Not much of a rider. A herder and trader. You must be wealthy too." He nods at her hands. "But you hold yourself like a sentinel. Bodyguard to that steel-eyed woman, perhaps?"

Lanau's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm not hiding anything."

Temej edges closer, drawn like a moth to the dangerous flame of Puripal's allure. "Your caravan nearby?"

"West gate," Ta says. "Guarded by three dozen men and a very cross camel." He leans toward Lanau, conspiratorial. "Just kidding. It's two dozen. And the camel's a sweetheart."

Fol grinds his teeth. "We. Should. Go."

Puripal ignores him, stepping into Temej's space. "Your eyes—a familial trait? Or stolen from some starry sky?"

Temej flushes, caught between pride and suspicion. "My passed father's parting gift, Mother told me."

"Pity. I'd trade a dozen Ta for such a gift."

Ta groans. "Stop flirting. You'll scare the poor boy. And I'm not a currency!"

Lanau's laughter is light, but her next words land like a dagger's point. "A prince couldn't afford threads like yours."

Silence.

Puripal's smile freezes. Ta's hand drifts toward his hip. Fol's breath stops entirely.

Then—

"A prince?" Puripal echoes, mock-offended. "Do I look like a man who enjoys responsibility?"

Lanau shrugs. "You look like a man who enjoys power. And silk. And this," she points at his finger. Temej's gaze flicks to the ruby-eyed tiger carved in Puripal's ring. "Is a Yohazatz royal sigil." His eyes widen.

Ta sighs. "Well. This got boring fast."

The alley is a coiled serpent, its cracked stones still damp with the night's breath, when the word "prince" slithers through the air. Naci's head snaps toward the market's din, her spine rigid as a drawn bowstring. San Lian's ramblings fade to static. There, amidst the saffron-stained chaos, Puripal stands—a peacock among pigeons, his silk gleaming like a smirk—and Lanau's voice carries, sharp and clear: "...is a Yohazatz royal sigil."

Naci moves.

The world narrows to the pulse in her temples, the dagger's weight in her palm. She is a storm given flesh, braids whipping behind her as she closes the distance in three strides. Puripal turns, his face a mask of mild curiosity, and then her fingers are vise-locked around his throat, slamming him into a pyramid of spice sacks. Cinnamon and cumin explode into the air, a fragrant haze stinging their eyes.

"Yohazatz," she hisses, her blade pressing a crescent into his jugular. "Your prisons cage our men. Would a prince's head pay for their freedom?"

Dukar is already there, hands raised, his voice a frayed rope straining to hold a landslide. "Naci, stop—he's with us! He is helping me save them!"

But Fol is faster.

The boy has been a trembling shadow all morning, his nerves scraped raw by memories of Jinlü Feng's body, melting in the sea, playing his dopshul like a spirit of death. Now, that shadow ignites. His sword rasps free, a silver arc aimed not at Puripal, but at Naci. Dukar tackles him mid-swing, and the blade veers, shearing through Puripal's ebony hair instead of his neck. A black curtain flutters to the ground, followed by a ribbon of crimson as the steel nicks the prince's forearm.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Puripal doesn't flinch. "A haircut and a blood oath? How forward."

Ta, meanwhile, is a feral blur. He launches himself at Fol, scaling the taller boy's body like a squirrel attacking a tree. Fol roars, thrashing, but Ta's legs lock around his waist, fingers clawing for his eyes.

Ta hisses, biting Fol's wrist until he drops the sword. They crash to the cobblestones, a tangle of limbs and fury. Fol's fist cracks into Ta's ribs; Ta retaliates by kneeing him in the groin. The crowd scatters, vendors abandoning their wares as the two boys roll through puddles of spilled wine and trampled figs.

Temej darts to Naci's side, his voice urgent. "Naci you should listen to your brother. Let them talk first, but if they're lying, we'll gut them slow, alright?"

Naci's blade doesn't waver. "Talk is wind. Hostages are currency."

Puripal's laugh is a velvet rasp. "Currency depreciates, lovely hawk. Allies, though… allies appreciate."

Her grip tightens. "Your head in a box will appreciate my men's freedom."

"Your men are alive because of me," Puripal gasps, his facade finally slipping. "I bribed the warden to delay their execution. Ask your brother!"

Dukar, still trying to split them apart, shouts, "It's true!"

Naci hesitates—a single heartbeat—but Fol, wild-eyed and beyond reason, hurls Ta off him and lunges. Ta skids across the stones, blood streaming from his nose, but springs up with a broken stall leg as a club. Fol ducks the swing, grabs Ta by the collar, and slams him into a wall. Plaster rains down as Ta crumples, gasping, but Fol isn't done. He straddles the boy, fists rising and falling like hammers.

"Liars! You're all the same—!"

Ta spits a tooth onto Fol's boot. "You hit… like a… bathmaid…"

Fol's next punch never lands.

Jinhuang materializes like a vengeful spirit, her braid a whip of midnight silk. She catches Fol's wrist mid-strike, twists it until bone creaks, then drives her palm upward into his chin. The crack echoes off the alley walls. Fol flies backward, skidding away through muck and shattered pottery before coming to rest at San Lian's feet.

The old soldier peers down. "Huh. Thought you'd be heavier."

Jinhuang crouches over Ta, her hands hovering as if unsure whether to strangle him or staunch his bleeding. "You look like minced lamb."

Ta grins, crimson staining his teeth. "But a handsome minced lamb."

Naci, still pinning Puripal, watches Jinhuang. Something flickers in her eyes before she barks, "Enough! Fol, stay down."

Fol doesn't move. His chest heaves, eyes glassy, a marionette with cut strings.

Temej approaches him cautiously. "Fol…?"

Dukar helps Ta sit up, offering a torn sleeve as a bandage. "Let's tell them what we're doing."

Puripal answers. "We're trading intel against your men's liberty. I'm on your side, as I told you."

Naci's blade digs deeper. "What kind of intel?"

"Moukopl," he repeats, lower. "We're planning to infiltrate the army to steal some info. But just so you know, my father has many children and I'm just one potential heir among so many." He meets her stare, unblinking. "Take me hostage. You'll be disappointed. I already failed to die thrice. My father has no prospect in me."

The alley holds its breath. A spice vendor begins rebuilding his stall, eyeing the bloodstains with resigned disgust.

Finally, Naci releases him. "Try to flee, and I'll feed you to my eagle."

Puripal rubs his throat, smiling. "I'd prefer wine, but I'll consider it a courtship."

Jinhuang hauls Fol upright, her grip gentler than her tone. "Snap out of it, or I'll dunk you in the horse trough."

Fol sways, his gaze clearing as he stares at Ta's battered face. "I… I didn't…"

Ta waves a limp hand. "Save the tears. You owe me a new tooth."

San Lian chuckles, a sound like gravel in a tin cup. "Well. This was fun. Can we drink now?"

As the group staggers into the pallid dawn, Jinhuang falls into step beside Fol. "You fight like a rabid dog," she mutters.

He doesn't look at her. "You hit like a landslide."

"Learned from the old man." She nods toward San Lian, who's swigging from a pilfered wine sack. "He's got a killer right hook."

Fol's lips twitch—almost a smile. Almost.

Behind them, Ta limps, leaning on Dukar. "So… do I get a reward for almost dying?"

"A bath," Lanau says. "You smell like a tavern floor."

Puripal twirls his severed lock of hair, thoughtful. "Do you think they'll write songs about this?"

Dukar sighs. "Such a pity. I really liked your hair."

Puripal tilts his head with a smile. "It will grow back. You can keep this lock as a souvenir."

The severed lock of Puripal's hair lies coiled in Dukar's palm like a silken serpent, glinting in the pallid dawn. He ties it with a frayed blue ribbon and lifts it to his nose. Jasmine and spices, blood and bergamot, ambition and regret. It lingers, haunting, like the ghost of a kiss.

Naci watches him silently, her scowl sharp enough to flay hide.

Dukar tucks the lock quickly into his belt.

"Aaaargh!" She shouts toward the rising sun. "This city reeks of evil spirits! I want my Horohan! Why is my idiot brother's lover with him and I'm all alooooone!"

San Lian, leaning on Jinhuang's shoulder, hiccups. "I want to vomit."

Jinhuang shoves him. "You've been vomiting since sunrise."

Naci ignores them, her gaze pinned to Dukar. "When do you return?"

He hesitates. Somewhere, Puripal's promises coil like smoke. "When the men are free. We'll ride home together."

Naci nods once, brusque, and strides away toward the guesthouse. Temej and Lanau follow, the latter half-dragging Fol.

Jinhuang watches them go, then elbows Dukar. "Your sister's got the warmth of a snow tiger."

"And the bite," he mutters, before turning to Puripal. "Shall we go too? We need to start working."

...

The guesthouse courtyard is a haven of shadows, its willow branches trailing like mourners' hair. Naci pauses at the gate, her hand hovering over the latch. Behind her, Fol stumbles, his breath hitching.

"Fol." She doesn't turn. "Did you aim your blade at me?"

Lanau tightens her grip on his arm. "He's not right, Naci. Let him—"

"I saw it," Temej interrupts, uncharacteristically grim. "He swung at you."

Fol trembles, a leaf in a gale. His voice, when it comes, is a shattered thing. "I… I did."

Naci pivots, her face unreadable. The courtyard holds its breath. A sparrow alights on the well's edge, tilting its head.

From her sash, Naci withdraws a flute—a simple reed instrument, its surface carved with Tepr clan markings. She extends it, her calloused fingers steady. "For you."

Fol stares, uncomprehending. "I… I don't…"

"I'm sorry I couldn't find a dopshul," she says, softer now. "This is lighter. For quieter nights."

He reaches for it, stops, his hand jerking back as if burned. "I don't deserve—"

"Fol." Naci closes the distance, her movements deliberate, slow, as though approaching a spooked colt. "Look at me."

He does, tears carving paths through the grime on his cheeks.

"I failed you," she murmurs. "Pushed too hard." Her thumb brushes his cheek, a gesture so foreign from the Khan of Tepr that Temej inhales sharply. "No more. You're not a weapon. From now on we are siblings, if that's alright with you."

Fol crumples.

Naci catches him, her arms locking around his shuddering frame. He clings to her, sobs muffled against her shoulder, the flute pressed between them like a vow.

"I'm s-sorry," Fol chokes. "The dreams… the blood… I can't breathe—"

"Hush." Naci's palm cradles his head, her voice a rumble beneath his ear. "We'll burn the dreams."

On the other side of Pezijil, the city stirs like a drowsy beast: merchants yawn as they unlatch shutters, fishermen haul nets crusted with salt, and a lone drunkard wobbles homeward, humming a tune drowned out by the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. But in the serpentine veins of the city, where shadows cling stubbornly to night, two figures move as if time itself has split.

Meicong darts through an alley, her dagger a silver crescent in the half-light. Her breath mists in the chill air, each exhale a ghostly trail as she leaps onto a stack of crates, then vaults onto a rooftop. Below, Meice follows, her laughter raw and jagged. She crashes through the crates like a boar through undergrowth, splinters spraying as she launches herself upward, fists-first, to slam into the clay tiles where Meicong stood moments before.

"Still running, brother?" Meice taunts, her voice slurred with the remnants of last night's liquor. She licks a cut on her knuckle, eyes glinting. "Or do you just enjoy making me chase you?"

Meicong doesn't dignify the jab with words. She flings a dagger—not at Meice, but at a frayed rope holding a merchant's awning. The canvas collapses, billowing like a ship's sail, and Meice snarls as she's swallowed by fabric. A muffled curse rises—"Fuck your ancestors!"—before the awning erupts in a whirl of fists, shreds of cloth spiraling like cherry blossoms in a storm.

The sisters spill into the street, where a melon vendor gapes as his cart becomes collateral. Meicong somersaults over the cart, snatching a melon midair and hurling it at Meice's head. It explodes in a burst of pink pulp, seeds clinging to Meice's hair like grotesque jewelry.

"You'll pay for that!" Meice roars, swiping melon guts from her eyes.

"Add it to my tab," Meicong quips, already sprinting down an alley choked with laundry lines. Sheets snap in her wake, linen ghosts fluttering as Meice barrels through them, fists tearing fabric to ribbons. A grandmother shaking out a rug freezes, squinting at the tattered remains of her sheets. "Ghosts! Ghosts in the daylight!"

They clash atop a bridge arched over the Khola Canal, the water below shimmering with reflected dawn. Meicong's dagger meets Meice's forearm guard, sparking as steel scrapes. Their faces hover inches apart, breath mingling, hatred and kinship twisting together like poisoned vines.

"You're a hypocrite and a traitor," Meice sneers, her free hand grappling for Meicong's throat.

Meicong twists, breaking the grapple, and sweeps her leg toward Meice's knees. "A traitor to what?" She hisses. "Yile's a means, not a master. You'd know that if you ever thought beyond your next bottle."

Meice staggers but recovers, driving a fist into the bridge's stone railing. Cracks spiderweb outward. "You think we have a choice?" She barks a laugh. "We're slaves either way. What's the difference?"

A fishmonger's boat glides beneath the bridge, and Meicong seizes the moment—she backflips onto the mast, perching like a cormorant. Meicong calls up. "Is that what you pictured?" She gestures at Meice's disheveled state—torn sleeves, melon pulp drying in her hair. "You're a drunkard, sister."

Meice's grin is all teeth. She leaps, gripping the mast, and climbs hand over hand, the wood groaning under her weight. "Liberation's overrated. You want to know true freedom?" She lunges, fist aimed at Meicong's jaw. "It's grabbing life by the throat and squeezing!"

Meicong ducks, the fist grazing her temple, and slams her dagger hilt into Meice's ribs. "It's not dying in a gutter!"

The fight spills into a tea house courtyard, where early patrons scatter like startled hens. A server drops a tray of porcelain cups; they shatter in harmony with the sisters' strikes. Meicong flips a table as a shield, and Meice punches through it, splinters raining. An old man slurping noodles pauses, unimpressed. "In my day, siblings settled arguments with words."

Meice snatches a chopstick from his bowl and flings it at Meicong. It embeds in a pillar beside her head. "Words are for cowards!"

Meicong plucks the chopstick free and twirls it like a tiny sword. "And you're what? A warmonger?"

"Better than a politician!" Meice vaults onto a low wall, balancing with drunken grace. "You scheme, you lie, you calculate—all to carve a bigger cage. I'd rather burn the world and dance in the ashes."

The sisters freeze as a child's laughter rings out—a girl in pigtails clapping at the spectacle. Her mother yanks her away, hissing about "unseemly theatrics." Meicong and Meice share a glance, the ghost of a shared childhood flickering between them. Then Meice spits, and the moment shatters.

By the time they reach the Temple of Whispers, the sun has crested the rooftops, gilding the stone lions guarding its gates. Meicong presses a hand to a shallow cut on her arm, breath ragged but steady. Meice leans against a lion, chest heaving, her right eye swelling shut.

"You could've left," Meice says quietly. "When Yile gave the order. You could've run with Kuan."

A monk emerges, broom in hand, and sighs at the trampled peonies. The sisters ignore him.

"You think you're free," Meicong murmurs, "but you're enslaved to every impulse. Yile's no better—he's addicted to control. And me?" She sheathes her dagger, the click of the scabbard final. "I'm trapped by the belief that one day, the calculus will balance."

Meice pushes off the lion, rolling her shoulders. "You're a fool. The scales are rigged." She nods at the monk, now sweeping around them as if they're inconvenient statues. "Ask him. Enlightenment's just another cage."

The monk pauses. "The Enlightened One teaches that liberation comes from releasing attachment to desire and control."

Meice throws her head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the temple walls. "See? Even the gods want you to live like a stump!" She staggers toward the gates, calling over her shoulder: "I can't kill you, brother. But never come back to the inner palace, or you will be in danger against the three of us. I'll tell Yile I'm done with his games. If he wants me dead, he'll have to pour the wine himself."

Meicong watches her go, the dawn painting her sister's silhouette in hues of fire and gold.

She touches the cut on her arm. Where can I be free?

Then she remembers that there is only one place everybody runs to. Where the wind blows on the grass and the sky is endless.

The monk nods at her and smiles. The peonies will bloom again.

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