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The sharp clack of wood on wood rang across the training yard in halting, uneven time. There was no rhythm to it, no elegance – the blows followed each other almost at random as the newest members of the Imperial army struggled to keep pace with their captain’s shouted instructions.

“Again!” Shang barked. He paced down the double line of recruits, surveying each pair as he passed. “High strike, low strike, left strike. Defenders, get those staves up! They’re called high blocks for a reason! Attackers, I want to hear your strikes fall together ! High! Low! Left!”

A yelp of pain halfway along the line told Shang someone had neglected to keep his fingers out of the way. Beside him, Chi-Fu smirked and scribbled a conspicuous note onto his ever-present writing board. 

Shang sighed. He had been so proud, so honoured, to be granted his first command. He knew getting a slapdash assortment of conscripted farmers and merchants’ sons ready for battle would be a challenge, but he never expected this . At best, some of his new subordinates were enthusiastic but woefully inexperienced. At worst, they could barely tell one end of a sword from the other. 

But however discouraging the last few days had been, Shang had no choice: he would whip this sorry excuse for a combat unit into shape if it killed him, or the Huns would come for them all. 

He continued to call out attack patterns, and gradually the men got the hang of it. Their strikes grew stronger and more precise, until at last they sounded almost as one. 

Then a boy at the far end of the row stepped back with a gasp. His attacker had struck his staff so hard that the force of the blow drove him out of the line. 

“Back in position, soldier!” Shang snapped. “Put some muscle into those blocks!” 

The boy resumed his place, red-faced as much from embarrassment as from exertion. The others didn’t even try to conceal their snorts of laughter. They knew as well as Shang did that that particular soldier was nigh incapable of putting muscle into anything.  

Shang wasn’t an idiot. He saw the way the men picked on the small, clumsy recruit who’d so awkwardly introduced himself as Fa Ping. That brawny bruiser Yao had not-so-accidentally dropped him on his behind in their very first staff lesson, and Shang was fairly certain the chaos that soon followed wasn’t only thanks to Ping’s ineptitude with the weapon. 

In some ways Shang couldn’t blame the other recruits for teasing him. That was just…how things worked. It was how men kept each other in line, and they hadn’t enjoyed spending their first night in the army picking rice out of the dirt. But it didn’t take a scholar to notice that as long as they kept Ping at the bottom of the heap, none of them would have to take his place there.

Shang’s father had warned him that hazing wasn’t uncommon among conscripts, who lacked the discipline of career soldiers. In this case, though, their childish behaviour wasn’t just because one odd little troublemaker had cost them a night’s sleep. Shang’s men were testing him as much as Ping, feeling out how far they could push a commanding officer who in many cases was younger than they were.

For the most part, Shang let them. He knew they’d never accept him as their leader if he threw a fit at every harmless prank. But he had his limits. That very day, only a sharp glance at one of the men had stopped him from slipping a worm into Ping’s morning congee.

To his credit, Ping was handling the whole ordeal with surprising dignity and not a word of complaint. Quite apart from causing trouble, he’d gone out of his way to avoid attention. He’d pitched his sagging tent as far from the others as he could, and barely spoke unless it was to acknowledge a command. Ping kept his head down, worked hard, and did his best to keep up with his fellow soldiers. 

Shang could respect that. He just wished it were enough. 

In hindsight Shang should have put a stop to it a lot sooner, but he wanted to at least be able to say he’d given Ping a fair chance. After all, Shang wasn’t the only one with an impressive military lineage. Despite Ping’s clumsiness and his obvious lack of skill, that he was the son of the legendary Fa Zhou could not be dismissed out of hand. And Ping was by far the best rider in the camp. He was the only recruit to have brought his own horse, a mount as fine as any Imperial stallion that he rode like an extension of his body.

But there was just no getting around the fact that Ping was the smallest, weakest member of the entire company. Plenty of the others failed as badly or worse than he did at their various training exercises – to Shang’s continuous dismay and frustration – but at least they had their strength. Ping could barely carry his own armour and supplies, let alone lift the heavy weights the rest of the men practiced with. He couldn’t climb a rope, or do a push-up, or run for even a minute before stopping to catch his breath.

Maybe, Shang thought, that was where Ping’s absurdly boorish posturing that first day had come from. It certainly would be difficult to convince people to take you seriously as a man if your arms were as weak as cooked noodles. 

And that was without taking into account the fact that Ping was almost obscenely pretty.

His features were fine enough to rival any Imperial lady’s. His fair complexion spoke of a life spent indoors, not labouring in a field. For all he tried to pretend otherwise, his voice was light and musical. Shang had felt rein calluses on his hands when they sparred, but he was sure that if he touched Ping’s cheek, his skin would be lily-soft. 

Not that Shang would have any reason to do so.

Regardless, he couldn’t help but blame himself as he watched Ping fall further and further behind with each passing day. Ping had more than his share of natural disadvantages, but if Shang were a better teacher, he might have been able to help him work around them. He even offered Ping extra coaching in the hand-to-hand combat ring, where his blocks were timid and his punches almost nonexistent. It was like Ping was afraid to even touch him. 

Shang didn’t know why that bothered him so much.

But despite Ping’s constant, valiant effort, he didn’t improve. He tried to conceal how much the work was wearing him down, but as their first week of training came to an end, the cracks began to show. 

Shang had hoped that Ping’s shameful attempt to cheat during an archery exercise was a momentary lapse in judgement. He didn’t want to think of him as a coward, but he had to wonder after Ping actually ducked behind his hands in one of their sparring sessions. When Shang threw him across the yard and into a tree, all he could think was that he hoped he hadn’t broken Ping’s delicate nose.

It took a run through a mountain gorge for the whole farce to come crashing down. 

All the recruits were breathing hard under the weight of their yoked sandbags when Chi-Fu turned Shang’s attention to the back of the group. There, far behind the last man, was Ping, barely managing to stay on his feet as he struggled in vain to catch up. He collapsed onto the dusty path as Shang ran back to join him, sweat-soaked, bleary-eyed, and utterly spent. 

Ping’s open disappointment and self-disgust when Shang relieved him of his burden were almost enough to change his mind. But Shang knew he’d made the right decision when he went to the stable that night. 

He had assumed Ping’s notoriously testy horse would try to bite his fingers off the moment he took his reins. Instead, the animal calmly allowed Shang to lead him from his stall, as if he could sense what was about to happen. As if he agreed that it was the only option, because if Ping were allowed to see active combat, it would mean his swift and certain death. And that would be Shang’s fault.

Shang scowled as he turned away from Ping’s crestfallen face. This was for the best. It was for Ping’s safety. He knew that. 

So why did he feel sick to his stomach?

Shang left his tent at sunrise, the very moment an arrow landed point-first in the grass not five feet in front him. He froze, scanning for the source of the threat. Judging by the angle it had come from overhead, but there were no trees nearby for the enemy to hide in. The rocky bluff overlooking the camp was within bow range, but it was on the wrong side – 

Shang’s eyes went wide as he followed the arrow’s trajectory to the fifty-foot pole in the center of the camp. A tired but satisfied Ping grinned down at the men from his perch at the top, Strength and Discipline draped casually over his shoulder.

As he registered the sound of cheers, something warm blossomed in Shang’s chest. He had no idea what to make of it. 

He trotted over to the base of the pole and waited as Ping carefully shimmied himself back down – a feat that, Shang had learned the hard way, was even trickier than getting up there in the first place. Their eyes met as Ping’s feet touched the grass. When he smiled, it wasn’t small or timid or weak or anything Shang had previously thought Ping to be. There was a fierceness to it that Shang had seen flashes of before, but the confidence – and the pride – were completely new. 

It took Shang a second too long to realize he should probably say something. He cleared his throat. 

“Well done,” he said. “Soldier.”

Ping just nodded, but Shang knew they understood each other.

From that moment on, things changed. Ping’s success lit a fire under the recruits that spurred all of them to new heights. They became more focused, more determined, more disciplined, and more willing to believe they could follow in the footsteps of a man they now considered their friend and comrade. 

Ping himself worked harder than anyone. He was still small, and there was only so much muscle he could gain in his arms and back. But he was also light and quick, and he learned to use both to his advantage. He trained his reflexes and coordination until he could pluck a fish from the stream without pausing to think. He finally figured out how to run properly, building his endurance with daily jogs around the camp. He kept up his hand-to-hand work until a perfectly placed kick knocked Shang flat on his back. The sting in Shang’s jaw felt strangely pleasant as he sat up, beaming proudly.

And that time, he hadn’t even been distracted by the flush in Ping’s cheeks. All those hours in the sun had given him a bit of a tan.

Over the next two weeks, the men’s skills improved by leaps and bounds. It was truly inspiring to watch each one take on his particular weaknesses and overcome challenges that had previously defeated him.  

Ping’s particular weakness, it soon became clear, was archery. 

More often than not Shang was likely to see him in the practice court long after the other men had retired for the evening, firing arrows with increasing frustration as each sailed wider and wider of the target.

After the fourth night in a row, Shang had no choice but to intervene. 

“You’re getting better,” he said. The sun was just beginning to set, throwing a long shadow out behind him as he climbed the hill to the archery lanes. “That one only missed by three feet.” 

Ping had been so focused that he hadn’t heard Shang approach. He jumped. 

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, wry and tired. He wiped his sleeve through the sweat on his brow, then grimaced. “I think.”

“That’s the problem,” Shang replied. “You’re thinking too much. May I?” 

Ping blinked, then nodded. Shang got into place behind him. 

“Take your stance again.” 

The problems were many, immediate, and obvious. “Your feet need to be farther apart,” Shang said. “Point your toes slightly out.” He knelt, shifting Ping’s foot into the correct position. “Don’t lock your knees,” he added, rising. “And keep your hips square.” 

Quite without meaning to, Shang settled his hands at Ping’s sides. Ping’s whole body tightened as he went abruptly still.

“Relax,” Shang said, more quietly this time. His hands rose, gently pressing Ping’s shoulders back down.

Ping was so warm Shang could feel it through his practice jacket. He really was working too hard. 

And holding the bow too tightly. Shang should fix that too. Except that then Ping would feel how sweaty his palms were. 

Shang was about to wipe them on his shirt when he became acutely aware that he’d once again neglected to put one on. 

He cleared his throat, then hastily scrubbed his palms on his breeches. He lowered Ping’s cocked elbow with one hand, then wrapped the other around Ping’s clenched fingers. 

Ping seemed to have stopped breathing. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Don’t strangle the bow,” Shang murmured. They were very close. When did that happen? “You’re not killing a chicken.” 

Ping huffed out a soft laugh. Shang could feel it in his chest. 

“Breathe in,” he said. “Back out. And release.”

This time, Ping’s aim was true: the arrow sailed through the air and straight into the centre of the target. 

He sagged into Shang, who was startled to find that Ping’s smaller frame fit against his rather perfectly. Who would have guessed?

“Finally ,” Ping said, with feeling. “That means I don’t have to do this anymore, right?”

Shang’s lips quirked. “Wait until you can hit it five or ten times in a row,” he said. It came out softly, like a secret. He had to tilt his head down just slightly to reach Ping’s ear. “Then we’ll talk.”

Ping shivered. Odd. The spring evening was very mild. 

He tried to turn, which was when Shang realized he was still holding Ping’s bow hand. He dropped it at once. Ping jerked away like he’d just been burned. 

“Um – ” he choked. “Thank you, for that, er – Captain . It was very…helpful.”  

Ping’s voice pitched unnaturally low as he once again tried to make it seem deeper than it was. Shang couldn’t fathom where that had come from. Surely, after everything he’d accomplished, he didn’t still think he had to pretend?

Ping’s face had gone very red. The light of the setting sun picked out the beads of sweat on his forehead in sharp relief. 

Suddenly something occurred to Shang. “Are you sick?” he asked. “Tell me, if you are – illness spreads fast in camps like this.”

Ping coughed – not a good sign. But when he spoke, his voice was back to normal. “I’m fine, Captain” he said, unstringing his bow and setting it on the rack. “Just a little – tired.” 

“You need to take more breaks,” Shang admonished. He folded himself into a seat on the cool grass and took his waterskin from his belt – Ping had, it seemed, forgotten to bring his own. Shang took a swig, then patted the ground beside him and offered the skin to Ping. “If you’re going to work yourself to death, at least wait until you can take a few Huns with you.”

Ping’s mouth twisted. Shang wished he hadn’t said anything. 

“It sounds so much more…real, when you say it out loud,” Ping said. He took a seat and a few deep gulps of water. “I’ve – never killed anyone.” 

Something about his tone made the truth spill out before Shang could stop it. “Neither have I.” 

Ping blinked. “Really?” he said. “But you – you’re a captain, uh, Captain. You must have fought battles before.”

Shang felt the tips of his ears go hot. No turning back now. “Not officially,” he said. “I ran messages for my – for the general’s war camps when I was younger. Took care of his batallions’s horses and weapons. I fought with one of the companies at the southern front, but that was the last real action I saw before I started at the academy.” 

“I never would have guessed,” Ping said, after a beat of silence.

Shang swallowed. He was pretty sure that was the longest speech he’d ever made to one of his recruits.

Because that’s what Ping was, he reminded himself. A soldier. A subordinate. One of nearly a hundred in this company alone. For a second he’d almost forgotten. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around, soldier,” he said. It came out more sternly than he intended. “The men don’t need to know.”

Ping flinched. He stood, squared his shoulders in military trim, and handed Shang’s waterskin back to him. “Of course, Captain,” he said stiffly.

Without another word, Ping bowed just slightly, turned on his heel, and retreated back down the hill toward his tent. 

For some reason, Shang felt like he’d just been slapped.

Training proceeded at a blistering pace. As Chi-Fu’s three-week report deadline drew near, Shang was quite sure his men could have rivalled any force Shan-Yu cared to throw at them. He was pleased, but no longer surprised, at their continued improvement. They weren’t a haphazard company of conscripted civilians anymore. They were soldiers, as good as any the Imperial army could hope to find. 

Unfortunately, Chi-Fu did not feel the same. His perpetual scowl deepened each time one of the men so much as landed a kick or parried a sword cut. When he summoned Shang to his tent the night before he was to deliver his report, he was positively seething. 

“You think your troops are ready to fight ?” Chi-Fu demanded. He gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “They would not last a minute against the Huns!” 

“They completed their training.” Shang struggled to keep his voice even. If he lost his chance – their chance – because this weedy little nothing of an Imperial paper-pusher couldn’t let go of his petty jealousies, he was going to start throwing things.

“Those boys are no more fit to be soldiers than you are to be captain,” Chi-Fu sneered. “Once the General reads my report, your troops will never see battle!”

A muscle in Shang’s jaw twitched. He rose before he could stop himself and grabbed Chi-Fu’s writing board. “We’re not finished!” 

Chi-Fu moved Shang’s hand away like it was a dead mouse. “Be careful, Captain,” he said softly. “The General may be your father, but I am the Emperor’s counsel.”

He made as if to leave, then turned back to Shang with the overly deliberate air of a bad stage actor. “And oh, by the way,” he said, slick as oil. “I got that job on my own.” He smirked, then held the tent flap open. “You’re dismissed.”

Chi-Fu would never have been able to land a physical blow on Shang. His jibe, however, hit him like a punch in the gut. Shang stormed out of the tent, stewing in a quiet mix of anger, anxiety and shame.

The man had levelled plenty of snide insinuations at Shang over the last few weeks, but never anything so overt. Shang’s previous confidence faltered. Was Chi-Fu right? Did he only have his position because of his father? Did he even deserve it? What right did he have to lead a company of men when he was practically as green as they were?

Shang didn’t notice Ping until he almost walked right by him. 

“Hey!” Ping said awkwardly. He didn’t bother trying to pretend he hadn’t overheard every word. “I’ll hold him, and you punch!”  

There it was again, that forced, too-deep voice Ping still used once in a while. It made him sound like a different person.

They hadn’t spoken directly since the archery court, nearly a week ago. On more than one occasion Shang had found himself taking unnecessarily circuitous routes just to avoid him. He’d walk up a line of soldiers, correcting this one’s stance or that one’s grip, then turn around when he reached him without saying a thing. 

It was unacceptable. Hardly an honourable way for a superior to treat a soldier who’d done everything asked of him and more. But Shang couldn’t help it then, and he couldn’t now. 

“Or not…” Ping said as Shang stalked past him. After a moment of stilted silence, Shang heard his voice again. 

“For what it’s worth,” Ping called after him, sounding more like himself, “I think you’re a great captain.” 

The words brought Shang up short. He slowed, glancing back at him. No soldier had ever complimented his ability to lead.

Of course Ping hadn’t stopped to wonder if that was an appropriate thing to say to his commanding officer. Tact, like archery, was not one of his strengths. Coming from any other man Shang might have thought he was being mocked, but there was no hint of a trick in Ping’s open, honest face. For a moment, Shang almost believed him. Then his reason caught up with him. Who was Ping to judge such things? What did he know about the burdens of command? 

Any reply Shang might have mustered got stuck in his throat. 

Back in his tent, Shang tried without success to concentrate on a stack of neglected reports. The words on the page blurred together as he read. He couldn’t stop thinking about Ping’s hopeful expression, the genuine kindness in his eyes. 

Maybe Ping wasn’t so wrong after all. Military training taught that a soldier’s personal regard for his officer was meaningless as long as he could follow orders. But if Shang had learned anything from his captaincy so far, it was that being granted command by his superiors was only the first step. It was quite another matter to be granted it by the men it was his responsibility to lead.

Besides, Ping’s opinion mattered to him. Probably more than it should.

Shang rose and stretched his arms overhead, wincing as his shoulder joint popped. He needed to be more diligent in his warm-up exercises – he’d be no good to anyone if his body failed him.

Suddenly he heard a soft rustling behind him, followed by the billowing of tent canvas as Chi-Fu wrenched open the flap. “Captain!” he cried, his bony chest heaving. “Urgent news from the General! We’re needed at the front!” 

Shang was so shocked that only after Chi-Fu left did he realize the man had been wearing only a towel.

It took far longer than Shang would have liked to prepare the company for departure. Between armour and weapons, food and cooking gear, tents, bedding, horses, wagons, medical supplies, and all manner of assorted necessary bits and pieces, it was four days before the men were ready to move out.

The night before they were to begin the long march up to the Tung Xiao pass found Shang in the stable, triple-checking that the tack was clean, the saddle blankets were free of burrs, and none of the horses had thrown a shoe. He knew he could have assigned the task to someone else. But with so few mounts, and all of them except his own Huojiang and Chi-Fu’s nameless bay gelding needed to pull the wagons, they would have to be extra careful to keep the animals healthy and comfortable. The only other man Shang would have trusted with such an important job was – 

Oh. 

Ping stood in a stall in the far corner of the stable, running a brush along his stallion’s sleek black flank and murmuring softly to him. He must have been there when Shang came in, but after the way he’d been treated recently, Shang couldn’t exactly fault Ping for not speaking up. 

Perhaps it was Shang’s turn.

“He’s a beautiful horse,” Shang said. 

Ping jumped. Even after a month in each other’s company, he always seemed surprised whenever Shang spoke to him.

“I never asked,” Shang continued. “What’s his name?”

“Khan,” Ping replied, recovering himself quickly.

“You didn’t need to bring him. The army doesn’t require recruits to supply their own mounts. We aren’t even a cavalry unit.”

“I know,” Ping said. “But we’re a team, Khan and me.”

Shang slowly extended a hand toward Khan. At Ping’s nod, he thrust it under the horse’s nose. Khan shot him an expression of deep disdain, but when he lipped at Shang’s palm, he didn’t take any fingers for his trouble.

“He looks like he could have come from the Emperor’s own stables,” Shang said.

“He did,” Ping replied. “The Emperor gave him to my father when he retired from the army. They thought he’d be able to ride again once his leg healed properly. But it – didn’t, so Khan just…became mine.”

Shang dusted off his palms and leaned against the stable wall. Even in the dim light of a few oil lanterns, he could see the adoration with which Ping looked at his horse. 

“I’ve been hearing stories about Fa Zhou since I was a boy,” he said. “The Battle of Fei River? He’s a hero.” 

“He’s my hero,” Ping said softly. “All I’ve ever wanted is to make him proud.” He frowned, his eyes downcast. “I’ve never been any good at it.”

“I’m sure he would be proud, if he could see you now.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Ping replied.

“What do you mean?”

Ping stopped brushing Khan and leaned his face against his neck. “He was going to come,” he said into the horse’s cropped mane. His voice didn’t shake, but it was a near thing. “He knew it would kill him and he was going to do it anyway. That’s how much honour means to him.”

“I’m surprised he let you take his place,” Shang said. Then he felt himself flush. “Not that you don’t – that you shouldn’t be – ” 

“He, um. Didn’t,” Ping said. “Let me, I mean. I sort of…stole his conscription notice.” 

Silence hung in the air for a long moment. Then Shang did something he hadn’t done in years, something he’d felt no desire to do since the start of the war, something that had seemed vaguely forbidden to him for most of his life: he burst into a gale of laughter. 

Ping just stared at him. 

“I’m sorry, it’s – it’s not funny,” Shang said. He cleared his throat, trying without much success to regain his composure. “I just – of course you did.”

Ping’s stunned expression melted into a small, somewhat sad smile. And – since when did he have dimples? How had Shang never noticed before? 

“Now all I have to do is live up to his name.”

That was something Shang could relate to. His father had never forced him to follow his footsteps into military training, but he hadn’t needed to: his tacit assumption that Shang would do exactly that precluded Shang’s desire to so much as consider any other path. Regardless of Ping’s interest in or aptitude for the art of war, it must have been just as impossible for the son of Fa Zhou to turn his back on it as it would have been for the son of General Li.

“I understand,” he said. “The pressure. Perfection, or shame.”

“I wanted to be perfect,” Ping said, more to himself than to Shang. “I tried and tried to become exactly what my family expected of me. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.” 

It was very fortunate that an entire horse separated the two of them. Without Khan in the way, Shang wasn’t at all sure he could have kept himself from pulling Ping into a hug. Anything to wipe the dejection off his face. Instead, Shang gripped the wooden barrier so hard that a sliver wedged itself under one of his fingernails.

“But look at what you’ve done!” he protested, hoping his wince didn’t show. “I know it was hard for you at the beginning. I’m sure it still is. But what more could your family possibly expect? How can you say you aren’t enough when you’re the best soldier in this camp?”

For the second time that night, Shang shocked Ping into open-mouthed silence.  

He hadn’t exactly meant to say that last part out loud. Now that he had, though, he couldn’t take it back. He didn’t even want to. “I mean it,” he insisted. 

“So did I – back at your tent,” said Ping. The emerging colour in his cheeks crept all the way down his neck and into the collar of his practice coat. Shang wondered if it kept going. 

“Don’t listen to Chi-Fu,” Ping added. “No one deserves to be our captain more than you do.”

For just a moment, Ping’s words pried at the cracks in Shang’s stoic resolve. “You really think so?”

“It’s not just me,” Ping said. “All the men respect you. The things you’ve taught us…we wouldn’t have made it anywhere without you.”

Shang swallowed. “That might be more thanks to you than to me,” he said. “I was going to kick you out, remember?”

Ping shrugged. “Maybe I needed the push.” Yawning, he stowed his brush and gave Khan one last pat. 

“You should get some rest,” Shang said, quite unnecessarily. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“So should you,” Ping said. “Goodnight, Shang.”

Despite the importance of rest, or perhaps because of it, it took Shang a long time to fall asleep that night. It might have been the conversation, or maybe it was just the thought of what the next day would bring. Whatever the case, finding a comfortable position on his cot was unusually difficult. Only when he rolled over on his side and slung an arm around his thin pillow did Shang’s thoughts finally stop racing long enough for him to start drifting off.

And if he held the pillow tight against his chest and, half-asleep, imagined it was a warm, slender body, well – it probably wasn’t important anyway.

There wasn’t much opportunity for them to talk on the road. Shang stayed up at the front, leading the long column of soldiers from Huojiang’s back. Ping spent most of his time at the rear with the wagon train. If nothing else, Shang was glad he could keep a close eye on the horses.

As the days wore on, conversation throughout the company turned where it inevitably did whenever men were bored, tired, and a bit scared. All they could talk about – all they could think about, it seemed – was girls: what they looked like, what they smelled like, the clothes they wore, the qualities that made them ideal wives. The soldiers crafted their daydream brides piece by piece into demure and devoted little dolls, with hand-picked dresses to match. 

It wasn’t strictly proper, nor were their wolf-whistles and catcalls at the women working in the rice paddies along the road very polite. But Shang had many battles to choose from and would soon have more, so he allowed the men their fun. Anything that kept their spirits up during the tedious march and distracted them from what lay ahead was worth it. 

The only one decidedly not enthused about the topic was Ping. He never offered his opinion about what a woman’s most attractive feature was, and seemed positively embarrassed at the prospect of receiving romantic attention from one. It wasn’t long before his comrades’ endless chatter visibly annoyed him. 

Though he didn’t dare ask, Shang couldn’t help wondering why that was. Ping had never mentioned a betrothed, but surely any woman would consider herself lucky to marry someone as kind, brave, hardworking and selfless as he was. If he had a sweetheart waiting for him back home, that would explain Ping’s discomfort when the few women they passed smiled and giggled at him.

But there was another possible explanation. 

Shang had heard of the men they called rabbits, and he knew what soldiers sometimes did for each other on long, lonely nights. It wasn’t unheard of, or even improbable, that Ping’s lack of interest in women might signal a presence of interest in – something else. 

Shang shouldn’t speculate. It wasn’t right. And he didn’t care one way or another, obviously. He was just…curious. 

He did have to hide a smile behind his hand the one time he heard Ping’s friends outright ask him what he would look for in his future wife. After an awkward pause, Ping stammered out a half-hearted response about a smart woman who wasn't afraid to speak up.

Which, to no one’s surprise, was met with jeers and laughter as the men turned back to their heated debate about whether cooking or cleaning was a prospective bride’s most desirable skill.    

Shang never joined them. It wouldn’t be appropriate for him to talk about such things with his subordinates; as their commanding officer, he needed to maintain a certain level of distance from them, especially when it came to affairs of the heart. 

He did start to ask himself, though, what his answers to those kinds of questions might be. In all honesty, he’d never really considered it. Life as a military officer kept him far too busy to spare much thought for romance, and he could hardly expect to meet his future bride in the army. He’d always assumed that when the time came, he would marry whichever young lady his father and the matchmaker deemed most advantageous for the Li family. They would have plenty of children – as many as possible, in fact, to make up for Shang’s being an only child whose mother died giving birth to him – and that would be the end of that.

On reflection, though, he agreed with Ping. If Shang ever did get the opportunity to choose his bride, marrying a woman he could have an interesting conversation with wouldn’t be so bad. She would have to be honorable as well, of course, and trustworthy, but it would be nice to find someone witty. Maybe even someone who could make him laugh, as he so rarely did these days. 

As he pondered these enticing possibilities alone in his tent, Shang’s wandering mind sometimes landed on Ping, sitting atop the pole in the glorious sunrise, the only one in the whole camp who figured out how to retrieve the arrow.

Yes, he thought. Spending his life with someone smart wouldn’t be so bad at all.  

His men were in the middle of an enthusiastic discussion about what made a girl worth fighting for when Shang smelled the smoke. 

Immediately, his senses went on high alert. The village was still too far off for him to be able to detect its cookfires. Besides, this wasn’t the comforting smell of crackling logs and simmering soup. It was dense, acrid, almost greasy, and tinged with something strangely metallic.

Shang spurred Huojiang into a canter, pulling ahead of the column of chattering soldiers. As he crested the last rise, the stink of blood and burning pitch hit him full in the face.

The village was in ruins. The short wall, little protection at the best of times, had mostly collapsed. Fires still smouldered in the skeletal remains of burned-out homes. A stone chimney jutted up into the sky, a lonely pillar against the desecrated landscape. 

And then there were the bodies. 

Dead men, women and children were everywhere. Some had fallen to sword cut, some to arrow shot. Some were so blackened by flames that they barely looked human at all. A few had clearly tried to fight: one man had a meat cleaver clutched in his outstretched hand and an arrow in his eye. No one had moved his body; like the others, he lay where he fell, and was already partially buried by fresh snow.

The men’s talk came to an abrupt, sickening halt as they drew up behind Shang, taking in the devastation in slack-mouthed horror. 

It didn’t make any sense. Where were his father’s troops? He’d taken three companies with him when he left the camp, more than enough to defend a village of this size. With Shang’s reinforcements, they should have easily been able to hold the entire pass. The General’s scouts had reported that the Hun war party they awaited, Shan-Yu’s vanguard and only a fraction of his full army, was behind them – though not, Shang recalled, exactly how far. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but looking back, the whole message had been a little short on details.

Shang swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “Search for survivors,” he ordered.

His soldiers did as they were bid, spreading out to lift sagging beams and peer around crumbling stone walls.

They all knew there was nothing left to find. 

Shang guided Huojiang carefully through the wreckage. He did his best to avoid the bodies, but some were so obscured by the undisturbed snow that he didn’t see them until it was too late. His gorge rose at the sound of an infant’s skull cracking under Huojiang’s hoof. The stallion, normally so steady, reared in panic when a flame-weakened door frame collapsed.

Up ahead, one of the men stood alone in the middle of what had once been a small house, head down and shoulders slumped. Shang dismounted to see that Ping was cradling something to his chest: a child’s doll, with black button eyes and a dress fashioned from red cloth. 

“I don’t understand,” Shang said. Shock and denial swirled around his mind. “My father should have been here.”

Then Chi-Fu’s voice echoed into the silence. “Captain!”

Shang and Ping joined him on a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. What they saw, Shang knew, would haunt him for the rest of his days.

More soldiers than he could count lay strewn across the ground like discarded toys. There were horses with them, and overturned wagons, even tattered Imperial banners. Unlike the villagers, snow hadn’t yet blanketed their corpses. Instead, they lay atop the ice in pools of their own blood. In the shadow cast by the ridge, it looked so dark it was nearly black.

A cool, detached part of Shang’s mind knew at once what must have happened. The scouts had been wrong: the Huns had reached the village first, they lay in wait and surprised the soldiers that had been sent to defend it. They’d slaughtered his father’s troops to the last man.  

The last man. 

Shang’s gut spasmed as Chien-Po emerged from the valley, a plumed helmet under one arm. 

No. 

Ancestors preserve him, no.  

“The General…” Chien-Po murmured. He placed the helmet in Shang’s outstretched hands. The metal felt like a block of ice. A terrible, bone-deep chill set into Shang’s body, but it wasn’t just from the cold. 

Numbly, blankly, he carried the helmet to the far edge of the ridge. He could still see bodies from this side, though not as many. He didn’t want to think about where among that field of corpses his father might be. He was too much of a coward to go and find him. 

Instead, Shang drew his sword, his father’s last gift, and thrust the blade into the snow. 

He spared no thought for the loss of the weapon. Shang had failed, after all, to uphold the trust his father had placed in him when he gave it to him. He was not worthy of carrying it, but at least it could still serve an honourable purpose – as the only grave marker his father would ever get. 

Kneeling, Shang balanced the helmet on the sword’s pommel. He placed his hands together and bowed, calling up the most reverent prayer he knew.

I failed you, father. Forgive me. 

Shang didn’t turn when he heard the soft crunch of footsteps. There was only one person who would dare approach him right now. 

“I’m sorry,” said Ping. 

Shang rose. He wanted to say something. To thank Ping for his kindness, or apologize to him too, or curl up in his arms and stay there until the gently falling snow buried them both. 

But the words didn’t come. All Shang could do was place a hand softly on Ping’s shoulder and hope he understood.

Shang would have kept going all night. Judging by the still-burning fires, the Huns couldn’t be more than half a day ahead of them. He would have chased them to the ends of the earth and ripped Shan-Yu apart with his bare hands if that’s what it took.

In the end, though, it was Ping who convinced him to see reason. It would soon be dark, and the snow that had begun to fall as they left the village was getting thicker. The men were tired, cold, hungry and miserable, in no state to confront the enemy even if they found it. Besides, Ping pointed out, the worsening conditions would halt Shan-Yu’s progress as well. Not even the Huns could march forever. 

Barely anyone spoke as they set up camp at the base of a high cliff, where a lip of overhanging rock provided a modicum of shelter. At least there was no wind – in fact, the air was almost unnaturally still. 

They’d long since passed the tree line, so with no wood for a fire, the rations were stone-cold. Shang took his share to his tent and ate it without tasting a bite. His grief would have to wait for another time. What the men needed now was a strong leader, someone they could trust to see them through the disaster their mission had become with a clear mind and a steadfast heart. It would do them no good to see their captain wallowing in despair.

Instead, Shang focused his attention on something useful: planning for the task ahead. He pondered the scene of the battle over and over again, and each time came to the same conclusion: no Hun war party could have defeated three hundred of China’s finest warriors in open combat. All the signs at the battlefield, the hoofprints and the spent arrows and the sheer scope of the devastation, were clear. Shan-Yu had attacked the pass with his entire fighting force, a thousand men strong at least. 

So how had they not known it was coming? How had the scouts made such a terrible mistake? How could Shang’s father not have realized he was leading his men into a trap? He would never have brought so few if he knew they would be facing an army more than three times their size, and he certainly would have reported their true numbers when he called for reinforcements. Unless…

Unless the message had not come from him.

All at once it became clear. They’d been deceived. Somehow the Huns had managed to pass Chi-Fu a fake message, an attempt to draw Shang’s own company up to the pass and catch them in the one-sided massacre along with the others. Perhaps they’d even concealed the true size of their army somehow, making the scouts and General Li himself think the battle would be easily won. 

If Shang’s company had arrived one day, perhaps even a matter of hours earlier, they’d be lying in the snow with their comrades, still and silent as the grave. The Imperial City would be about to face an attack no one knew was coming. 

It still might. 

Shang knew the odds. He knew strategy and statistics and plain old logic. He was not so arrogant as to presume that his company’s presence would have stopped the bloodshed at the village. The idea that the hundred soldiers under his command could somehow defeat a thousand Huns before they reached the far side of the Tung Xiao pass was laughable.

But they had to try. All of China would fall if they didn’t. And even if Shang survived, there could be no life for him after such a dishonour.  

There could be no life for him if he allowed his father to die in vain.

With that, the emotions festering in Shang’s shattered heart could no longer be contained. A sound he hadn’t known he was capable of making burst out of him, a protracted howl of pain and rage. His eyes blurred as one tear fell, then another, then another, carving hot tracks down his cheeks until he was crying in earnest. In that moment all Shang wanted was to get away from this forsaken place and find somewhere safe, where nothing could ever hurt him again.

What he did next was neither strategic nor logical. Without stopping to consider whether it was a good idea, without even putting on his shoes, Shang ripped open the tent flap and stepped into the quiet night. The sting of the ice against his bare feet was far less punishment than he deserved, but he savoured it nonetheless as he allowed his body to lead him.  

Most of the soldiers had bunked together in twos and threes; this was neither the time nor the place to gripe about such trifling complaints as snoring, blanket-stealing and a comrade’s cold toes. But one little tent stood some distance apart from the others, less by necessity at this point than by habit, its roof sagging slightly in the middle.

The benefit of lying awake for most of the night was that Shang’s eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness. He could see Ping’s face clearly as the other man woke, squinting at him. His unbound hair stuck up at the back in a cowlick Shang could only describe as adorable. 

“Shang,” Ping said. His voice was quite alert, though husky from sleep. “What’s wrong? Is it the Huns?” 

At Ping’s words, the manic energy that had carried Shang this far dissipated like a puff of smoke. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I…I’ll go, I just – ”

Before Shang could turn to leave, Ping pulled back his blanket. “Shang,” he said softly. “Wait.”

When a hand found his through the dark, Shang couldn’t let go. Ping was warm, and he was so, so cold. He slumped to the floor of the tent beside him, barely registering when a sharp pebble beneath it bit into his knee. Then he fell into Ping’s open arms, sobbing like a child.

For the first time in his life, Shang let himself be blind to everything but his grief. He felt like he’d been made hollow, everything that was him scooped out and replaced with nothing but maddening, all-consuming sadness. Ping held him close, stroking his back as he murmured soothing nonsense into his ear.

“It’s too much,” Shang said into Ping’s neck. “I can’t do it. It’s hopeless. I failed.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Ping said. “There was nothing we could have done.”

“But they’re all gone.” It was hard to breathe through the hot, shameful tears. His father would die all over again to see him so dishonoured, but Shang was too weak to stop. “All those people, my – my father, everyone – ”

“Not everyone,” Ping replied.

Shang gave an ugly snort of ironic laughter. “The men would hate me, if they saw me like this. I should be better.” Shang’s voice wobbled as he said, “You won’t tell?”

“No,” Ping replied. “But it’s no reason to be ashamed. I see you, and I could never hate you.” 

Shang buried his face even further into the soft hollow of Ping’s neck. “I knew I could trust you.”

Ping went suddenly tense. When he spoke, it was so quiet that at first Shang wasn’t sure if he’d heard it at all. “You shouldn’t.”

“What?”

Ping sighed. “It’s not important,” he said, shaking his head. “Just – I need you to know that I’m here for you. No matter what…happens, you’ll have me, as long as you want me.”

Shang pulled back just far enough that he could see Ping's face. “I always want you.”

Shang wasn’t sure which one of them leaned in first. The next thing he knew, the feeling of Ping’s mouth against his was the only thing that mattered. 

Ping froze for the briefest instant. Then he breathed a tiny, hitched sigh and surged forward, kissing Shang back just as fiercely.

Shang was no stranger to physical intimacy. His father had procured the services of a gējì for him the day he turned fifteen. When Shang fought in his battalion, specially recruited camp followers competed with each other to provide relief to the tired, lonely soldiers. 

But Shang had never felt like this. He’d never desired anyone, man or woman, but Ping’s touch made him ache with need. 

Maybe, if he let himself have this, he could forget about everything else.

Shang’s hands were fumbling at the hem of Ping’s loose sleep shirt when something chirped. For a second he thought it was a – no, of course not. How could a cricket have made it all the way up the side of a mountain?

Suddenly Ping jerked away from him. He fell to the bedroll and scrambled back on his elbows, lips parted and eyes wide. 

The hot yearning inside Shang turned instantly to ice as reality slammed into him so hard he felt sick. Of course Ping was horrified. His commanding officer had just burst into his tent in the middle of the night and accosted him in his sleep like a rutting brute. 

Shang’s mouth tasted like sawdust. He’d ruined everything. Ping would never look at him the same way again. Ping would never touch him again.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “Forgive me.” 

It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was all he had. 

Shang spared Ping the need to say anything back. He crawled out the door and returned to his own tent, colder than ever before.

In the months since he assumed command of the company, Shang had been reminded many times that his men were conscripted civilians, not veteran soldiers. They sometimes did careless, lazy things veteran soldiers never would, like forgetting to unstring their bows after archery training or putting their armour away without cleaning it properly.

They also did reckless, stupid, crazy, brilliant things veteran soldiers never would, like defying orders and risking their own lives to take out an entire enemy army with a single cannon.

Of course, Ping’s act of heroism had not come without cost. They’d lost all the wagons they had with them and almost every horse, though Huojiang and Chi-Fu’s gelding had bolted back toward the village when the fighting began. The only reason they had any supplies left at all was because a squad of men had stayed behind to put out the remaining fires and try to give the dead some semblance of respectful funeral rites. They joined the rest of the company at the top of the pass a few hours after the battle with their last wagon – and, mercifully, their medic and the two horses – in tow. When Shang explained what happened, they could only stare. 

But worst of all, fifty-six of their men had gone over the cliff alongside the Huns. More than half the company was dead, drowned in the churning sea of snow and ice.

Shang still had no earthly idea how he had not been one of them.

The last thing he remembered was Ping’s hand clasped around his forearm as he tried to haul both of them onto Khan’s back. After that Shang’s memory was blank until he woke at the edge of the canyon with Ping at his side. 

He would have said he couldn’t believe Ping had saved his life after what Shang had done to him. But he did believe it. Of course Ping was strong enough, brave enough, good enough to look past Shang’s cruelty. Even if he hadn’t been such a weak, selfish fool, Shang would never deserve this man.

And now he was going to lose him.  

Shang had done his best to keep Ping warm until the medic arrived. He’d wrapped him in his own cloak and chafed his icy fingers until they bruised while he tried to staunch the bloody wound in his side. 

But it had been hours. 

Shang felt like a rock had dropped into his stomach as he paced back and forth in front of the medic’s tent. All his lessons in command had taught him that favouritism was unfair to the rest of the company. Even if it weren’t, the chance that they could all die at any moment made it unwise to get too attached to any one particular soldier.

And Shang had done far more than that. 

Don’t leave me, please. Not you too. I can’t bear it.

Don’t leave before I can tell you I’m sorry.

Don’t go without letting me tell you I – 

“Captain.” Shang jumped as the medic finally emerged from the tent. He summoned him with a crooked finger and spoke in an undertone, quiet enough that the men waiting anxiously nearby couldn’t hear. “There’s something you need to see.”

Was this it? Was he about to watch Ping die? Heart thudding, Shang opened the tent. 

But Ping didn’t look to be on the verge of death. In fact, he seemed perfectly healthy – or at least, as healthy as one could be after taking a slash to the side from Shan-Yu’s strange rippled sword. He was awake, the colour returned to his cheeks. He even smiled at Shang as he sat up to greet him.

Then the blanket fell away, revealing the soft curve of his – her – bound breasts. 

Shang froze. Flashes of light popped in his vision as he stared. Bizarrely, he had to stifle a laugh as it occurred to him that he was being rude. He should look away. It wasn’t decent to ogle a woman like this.

A woman. A woman. The word bounced around Shang’s mind until it lost all meaning.

She cringed as she clutched the blanket to her chest. “I can explain.”

It was Ping’s voice. She sounded like he did when Shang caught him unawares, in those rare moments where he relaxed completely and stopped trying to pretend. Shang knew that voice. 

He knew the feeling of those lips against his. 

So why did he feel like he was looking at a stranger?

Chi-Fu burst through the door behind him. “So it’s true!” 

Suddenly the tent felt unbearably hot and stifling, as though all the air inside it had been sucked away. Shang couldn’t stand it a moment longer. He stormed out into the twilight, ignoring the sound of his name as the woman called out after him. 

Chi-Fu emerged half a step behind Shang, dragging the woman by the arm as she tried to keep the blanket around her half-clothed body. 

“I knew there was something wrong with you!” 

He ripped out the tie that secured her topknot, and her hair fell in a curtain around her shoulders. She groaned in pain as Chi-Fu threw her to the ground. 

“A woman!” he cried, announcing it for all the soldiers to hear. “Treacherous snake!”

Shang had seen Ping’s hair loose not even a day ago. He knew exactly how it felt when he ran his fingers through it. But he hadn’t noticed how much softer the angle of Ping’s jaw had looked when it was down. 

The woman pushed herself to her hands and knees. “My name is Mulan!” she said. “I did it to save my father.” 

Shang blinked.

He was going to come. 

“High treason!” Chi-Fu bellowed. He sounded like he wanted his proclamation to carry all the way down the mountain to the Emperor’s palace.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far!”

“Ultimate dishonour!” 

The woman – Mulan – flinched away from Chi-Fu as he spat the words in her face. “It was the only way!” she cried. “Please, believe me!” 

He knew it would kill him and he was going to do it anyway.

Chi-Fu straightened, hands on his hips, the picture of smug arrogance. “Captain.”

Shang bit his lip. Chi-Fu was intolerable, but in this case he was absolutely right. When it came to such betrayal, Imperial law was clear. He reached for Mulan’s sword – Fa Zhou’s sword, he corrected himself, her father’s sword – and pulled it from the scabbard strapped to Khan’s back. The horse reared, screaming.

The ringing as he unsheathed the sword hung in the air far longer than it should have, until Shang realized the sharp, tinny whine was coming from his own ears. The sound grew in pitch until he could hear nothing else. He towered over Mulan and held the weapon aloft, just as he had his own sword before he plunged it into the ground.

General Li’s sword. His father’s sword.

The hilt was as cold as the helmet had been when Shang cradled it in his arms. Cold as an avalanche. Cold as mountain ice under his bare feet. Cold as his heart when Ping – when Mulan – pulled away from his kiss. 

Mulan closed her eyes and bowed her head. She knew what was coming, and she wasn’t going to fight it. 

That’s how much honour means to him.  

The sword landed flat in the snow.

Of all the stilted, artless, ill-mannered things Shang had said to Mulan since they met – and he was still not entirely sure how to measure that time – “you fight good” was definitely the most embarrassing. When it mattered more than ever, words had failed him yet again.

Even now, as he handed Mulan her – her father’s – helmet, Shang was just as awkward as Ping had been when he first introduced himself. Lucky for him, and not for the first time, Mulan was there to save him.

This time, he resolved, she wouldn’t need to 

Normally Shang would never have been so forward as to ask a living legend if he could talk to his daughter unchaperoned. But Shang had a strong suspicion that Fa Zhou wasn’t the one whose permission he needed. 

“Mulan, may I speak with you?”

Mulan’s eyes flicked over to her father. It wasn’t a question.

Fa Zhou gave them both a knowing look. “I think I will go pray,” he said. 

Only when he limped out of earshot did Mulan gesture to the stone bench under the cherry tree. As they sat, Shang was surprised to see Shan-Yu’s sword and the Emperor’s crest lying on the ground, where someone appeared to have tossed them aside. 

“They weren’t as important as you thought they’d be, were they?” he asked. 

Mulan smiled ruefully. “I hoped if I brought them, my father wouldn’t be angry at me for leaving.”

“Does he get angry?” Shang asked, raising an eyebrow. The quietly dignified man didn’t seem like the type.

Mulan looked out across the yard to her family’s temple, where Fa Zhou was climbing the steps. Her smile broadened into a genuine grin. “Never. He’s the sweetest, gentlest person I’ve ever known.”

“The stories never mention that part,” Shang replied. “I understand why you…did what you did.”

“It wasn’t just for him.” At a puff of gentle breeze, a few cherry blossoms fell from the tree behind them and drifted to the ground. Mulan plucked one out of the grass, cradling it in her palm. “Maybe it started out that way,” she added quietly. “But…”

“You could have left when I told you to.”

“I had to prove to myself that I could do something right for once,” Mulan said. 

Shang wanted to move closer to her, to take her hand, but he felt rooted to his seat on the cool stone bench. “You did a bit more than that,” he said. “I heard somebody call you the saviour of all China. He wasn’t anyone important though, so it probably won’t catch on.”

That startled a soft laugh out of her. “I never wanted anyone to kneel to me,” she said. “I just didn’t want my father to die.” 

An image of a plumed helmet balanced on the pommel of a sword flashed in Shang’s mind. His face darkened. “Neither did I,” he said. “At least one of us succeeded.”

Mulan let the cherry blossom fall to the ground and looked at Shang. Now that they were sitting down, the difference in their heights was less noticeable. He barely had to tilt his head down to catch her eyes. She reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Shang felt his stomach flip at the touch. 

“Your father would have been proud of you too,” she said. 

Something hot stung at the corners of Shang’s eyes. Mulan pretended not to notice as he wiped his free hand across his face. 

“I’d never really succeeded at anything before,” she said. “I was always disappointing someone or other. But I’m good at fighting. I like it.”

Shang’s lips twitched. “Except archery.”

“Hey!” Mulan said. She released his hand only to nudge him playfully with her elbow. “Fine then. Archery excepted, I like fighting a lot more than I would have liked being a perfect bride. But I would have done it. I would have done anything to honour my family, and make them proud.”

Shang remembered the way Fa Zhou had looked at his daughter. “You did that long before you saved China,” he said. “So I guess the question is – what do you want to do now? You could always go back to the Emperor.”

“I’m not going to spend the rest of my life shuffling paper,” Mulan replied. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Chi-Fu would have me assassinated if I took his job.”

With great effort, Shang was able to turn his snort of laughter into a cough. “You might be right,” he said. “The army, then? No one could say you don’t belong there.” He flushed, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I ever tried to.” 

Mulan paused as she considered the question. 

“If you want my opinion, you’re wasted as a soldier,” Shang said. “You could be commanding armies, at least.” His mouth twisted sadly. “We are going to need another general.”

“Isn’t that your path?” Mulan asked. 

That question, Shang already knew the answer to. “Maybe someday,” he said. “But plenty of people thought I only became a captain because of my father. If I take his place now, I’ll never stop wondering if they were right.”

Mulan ran her thumbs over the pads of her fingers. She didn’t seem to realize she was doing it. “I thought I might like to teach,” she said finally.

“You’d be good at that. Far better than I was.”

“I don’t mean army recruits,” said Mulan. “I mean girls. I could train them in self-defence, maybe even combat. I want to show them – everyone – that bearing children isn’t the only thing women are good for.”

“You want things to change.”

“Yes. And that won’t happen as long as people can say I was a lucky accident. I’m sure there are others like me, who dream of a different path than the one they’re expected to take.”

Shang’s heart swelled. The Emperor had been right. If he lived a thousand lifetimes, he would never meet another person like her. “Well, if anyone can change people’s minds – change their hearts – it’s you,” he said. “History will never forget what you did. And if all it remembers about me is that I fought along Fa Mulan, that would be the greatest honour I could receive.”

Mulan’s cheeks turned pink at the praise. She tucked one side of her hair behind her ear, revealing the angle of her jaw. It was the most like Ping she’d looked since she put on a dress. 

“Who knows,” Shang said. “Maybe the next time a girl joins the army, she won’t have to pretend she’s a boy.”

“I don’t want anyone to have to pretend to be something they’re not,” said Mulan. Her voice quivered a little when she added, “I never wanted to lie to anyone, Shang. Especially not you.” She bit her lip. “Everything I told you as Ping is still true as Mulan.”

Shang thought of the conversation they’d shared in the stables, and of what she said when they were alone in her tent. 

Of the way she gasped against his mouth when he kissed her.

He swallowed. “Everything?”

But he didn’t need to ask. The fire in Mulan’s eyes told him plain as day that she was thinking about the same things he was. 

“Then you should know that everything I said to Ping is still true too,” Shang said. Then he grimaced. “The good parts, I mean. And there are things I didn’t say that I should have.”

“Shang – ”

“I was never good at – words,” he continued. “But you deserve them. You deserve the truth.” Shang shifted, closing the small gap between them. When he met her gaze, no force on earth could have compelled him to look away. “I love you, Mulan. But I loved Ping first. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him.”

Mulan’s next words came out as a whisper. “He’s not gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s still a part of me,” she said. “Maybe he always was, and I just didn’t see it. Maybe that’s why I never felt like I – fit. I was Ping for months. Now I wake up some mornings and it just feels…right, to think of myself as him.” She shrugged. “I can’t explain it any better than that.”

The warmth in Shang’s chest grew stronger. It wasn’t just love, he realized. It was something found he didn’t know was lost. The crystallization of a hope he didn’t know he was clinging to. 

“I understand,” he said, a little breathless. “Yin and yang, right? Isn’t that what they say, that we all have a bit of each?”

“I like that,” Mulan said. “I guess I just have more yang than most girls.”

Shang chuckled softly. “It would have been so different.”

“What?”

“If I’d met you – ” he gestured to her simple but feminine gown “– like this. If you were just a girl the matchmaker picked out for me. I mean, you were never ‘just a girl,’ but without Ping…I don’t think we would have come to know each other like we did.”

“Then I’m glad it happened,” Mulan replied. “I’m glad I got to be both.”

“So am I.”

Mulan looked away. For the first time, she seemed hesitant, almost shy. “Do you think you could…want both?”

Slowly, gently, Shang reached out and caught Mulan by the chin, turning her face back toward his. 

“I already do.”

It was so different from their first kiss. Not frantic or desperate, not born of grief, not couched in a lie. They came together as equals, tender and unhurried. So much else had changed, but still they fit against and within each other like yin and yang, just as perfectly as they always had.

When at last they pulled away, Shang could see that Mulan was fighting back tears of her own. But hers, he knew with absolute certainty, were happy ones. 

“I love you too, Shang,” she said. She laughed a little wetly and wiped her eyes. “I’ll try not to surprise you like that again.”

Shang wrapped an arm around her. “A life without surprises would be very boring,” he said. “You are many things, Fa Mulan, but you are not boring.” 

“No,” she said, tucking her head beneath Shang’s chin. “I suppose not.”

Shang pressed a kiss into Mulan’s hair, feeling warmer than he ever had in his life. 

“Then may you never stop surprising me.”