Chapter Text
The faint chill of dawn crept through the seams of the tent, stirring Zui from shallow, restless sleep. He lay half-curled beneath the coarse wool blanket, crude in its making but the best of what was seen on the warfront, the muted clamor of a waking camp seeping into his senses—the crunching shift of boots on frozen ground, smell of smoke, the clatter of pots, the guttural murmur of men’s voices still thick with sleep. His body roused before his mind, heat pooling low in his belly, a tension familiar and inconvenient.
His breath escaped in a quiet groan, the sound muffled against the edge of the pillow. The stiffness pressed uncomfortably against the rough fabric of his underclothes, a reminder of the warmth the prince lacked in these cold barracks of canvas. He closed his eyes, turning onto his back, and for a fleeting moment allowed himself the dangerous luxury of memory.
Maomao’s face rose to clarity in an instant, sharper than any dream: the tilt of her eyes when she dismissed his opinion with feigned indifference, the curve of her lips when she humored him despite herself, the rare warmth of her hand brushing his, too fleeting, too delicate. He imagined her seated beside him in the half-light, the scent of herbs clinging to her clothes unmistakable underneath any perfume, her voice steady as she scolded him for indulging in foolishness even here. But in his mind’s eye she leaned close, fingers tracing his chest, pausing at the hollow of his throat as though to claim the rhythm beneath.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand across his face beneath the bounded cloth around his head. To dwell on such thoughts here was reckless, yet his body betrayed him. The ache persisted, stubborn and insistent, a reminder that no armor or title could strip him of his skin and flesh. He shifted beneath the blanket, willing himself to patience, willing the tide of hunger to ebb. This was no palace chamber where he might find solitude enough to sate the urge; this was a camp, the air alive with listening ears sharpened to a point finer than any blade.
Zuigetsu pushed himself upright, the blanket falling to his lap, cold air rushing in to replace its meager warmth. His pulse slowed as discipline settled back over him like a second skin. He flexed his fingers once, deliberately, then reached for the garments laid neatly at his side. Each layer dulled the memory of her, each fastening smoothed the edges of desire into something tolerable.
When he was finally dressed, he sat in silence for a while, listening. Outside, the camp grew louder, the bustle of men preparing for the day ahead. He drew in a long breath, steadying himself. The ache in his body lingered, but he forced it down, caging it with the countless other longings he could not afford to act upon.
Only when the familiar voice outside cleared its throat with a gentle bid for his master did Zui answer, his tone even, composed. “I’ll be out shortly.”
The armor stand at the side of his tent gleamed faintly, catching the gray wash of dawn—his ceremonial plates polished by Basens’ attentive hands during the night. He did not reach for them immediately. Instead, his fingers brushed the plain garments laid out first: simple underclothes, the padded coat for warmth. He dressed without assistance, though it took him far longer and was not easy, each movement deliberate, as though steeling himself with every tie and fastening.
Pulling the tent flap aside, he stepped into the day. The sky was pale, streaked with thin clouds, the light still weak but growing with each clouded breath of time. Around him, the camp pulsed with movement: soldiers tending to fires, securing packs to horses, adjusting the leather bindings of armor. The smell of boiled grain and salted meat clung to the air.
As Zuigetsu walked toward the central fire, conversations faltered. Men turned their heads, their voices dipping low, posture stiffening. Some lowered their eyes in deference, others studied him openly, weighing the man against the crown he did not wear but could never escape. He gave them no pause, his stride calm and measured, neither hurried nor hesitant. If they saw him as a figure sent to inspire or condemn, he would let them see only control.
Near the fire, a seat had been reserved, a bowl of steaming porridge and a cup of hot tea set out. An officer bowed sharply as the Prince approached, gesturing to the place with the rigid courtesy of one drilled in the presence of nobles. Zui inclined his head once, neither overly warm nor cold, and lowered himself onto the wooden stool.
The tea was bitter, but it cut the chill from his chest. The porridge was bland, but it grounded him. Around him, men resumed their talk in hushed tones, glancing from time to time in his direction. He pretended not to notice, but he caught the flicker of awe, of doubt, of guarded curiosity. It was a silent reminder: every word, every movement would be weighed as a measure of his and the Emperor’s shared blood.
Zuigetsu lifted his gaze to the pale horizon, the sun just beginning to edge upward. The day had begun, and with it, the march deeper into a war he could not yet see the end of.
It was only then he felt a familiar presence at his back. Basen slipped into view without announcement, a bowl in his hands. He lowered himself onto the log beside Zuigetsu with a subtle nod, his posture a blend of soldier’s discipline and the easy confidence of youth. “The oats are passable—if only barely,” he remarked, low enough for only Zuigetsu to hear, as though to smooth over the tension that clung to the air.
On the opposite side of the fire, General Huolun, broad-shouldered and unshakable, watched the two of them with a faint crease between his brows. He lifted his cup in acknowledgment of Zuigetsu, then returned to quiet conversation with another officer. The dynamic was clear—caution veiled in respect, suspicion cloaked in ritual courtesy.
Zuigetsu lifted his gaze to the pale horizon, the sun just beginning to edge upward. The day had begun, and with it, the march deeper into a war he could not yet see the end of.
It was Colonel Wei who broke the hush. His boots struck the earth with deliberate weight as if demanding even the roots bow beneath his feet. He stepped forward, dipping his head just enough to honor protocol without bowing his pride. “Imperial Brother,” his voice carried over the low hum of camp, rough and deep, “the men are fed, the scouts report no movement in the vicinity, and the horses are restless. Shall we begin the day’s march?”
Every ear turned at once. Conversations cut short, spoons stilled mid-air, even the clink of armor ceased. All eyes flickered toward Zuigetsu, waiting for the shape of his reply. To them, his word was not merely instruction—it was law, the pivot around which their journey turned.
Zuigetsu let his hand linger over the rim of his cup before setting it down. He rose slowly, cloak brushing against his calves, the movement unhurried yet decisive. “We move,” he answered, his tone calm but resonant enough to travel across the fire. His gaze swept briefly over the gathered men. “See that the supplies are secured, and the weakest mounts given lighter loads. We will need endurance more than haste.”
A murmur rippled outward as orders were relayed. Wei struck his fist to his chest in acknowledgment, already turning to bark commands at his captains. Basen stood beside Zuigetsu, straight-backed, ready to shadow his every step without being told. Around them, the camp shed its morning lethargy, snapping into order with the practiced rhythm of men long accustomed to marching into uncertainty.
Zuigetsu did not watch the bustle unfold. His eyes lingered on the horizon instead, a thin line of pale light splitting sky from earth. The world beyond that horizon waited for them—unknown, vast, and hostile. He breathed once, steady, and stepped forward. The army moved with him.
The great black stallion stamped the ground impatiently as Zuigetsu approached, its dark eyes gleaming with a spark of indignation, or perhaps challenge. The beast’s breath steamed in the crisp morning air, flaring from its nostrils as though it mocked the man who dared to mount it.
Zuigetsu placed a hand on its neck, feeling the heat rising from it’s fur. It vibrated with a snort, dense muscle rippling beneath the glossy coat. The animal was powerful, well-kept, bred for both stamina and appearance—the sort of mount expected for the Emperor’s brother. A war mount was bred to keep its rider safe and trample any poor enemy souls beneath, with hypervigilance and power. Yet power made for temperament, and temperament made for trouble.
He swung himself into the saddle with a slight thud and a black ear flipped back. Zuigetsu’s posture marked one who knew he was being watched, though inwardly he cursed the sharp tug against the inner seam of his thighs. The leather creaked, the saddle groaned, and his legs were already reminding him of all the hours he had spent at desks and banquets rather than astride horses. Chafing would come soon enough—he could feel the warning in every shift of weight.
The stallion tossed its head, the world shifting left then right, testing him with a sudden lurch forward. Zuigetsu tightened one rein, jaw steady, hoping his few hours of practice had prepared him to hinder the beast’s forward movement while keeping his own body aligned as though nothing had unsettled him.
Pride demanded he show no falter before the ranks. He thought, not without bitterness, how Maomao would likely scold him for neglecting such practical training, her tone sharp, her eyes narrowed with that blend of irritation and care had she known he had the privilege of owning a horse and not needing to think of its maintenance.
The column stretched long behind him, the rhythmic clatter of hooves trotting and the occasional creak of wagon wheels weaving into a low symphony percussive of movement along the road. As they set out, the landscape unfolded in early spring’s muted hues. Frost still clung to the shaded edges of the path, but green shoots pushed stubbornly through, defiant against the chill. Willows drooped over streams that glimmered silver in the morning light, while distant hills rolled under a haze of pale mist.
Zuigetsu drew in the damp air, tinged with the earthy scent of thawing soil and the faint sweetness of budding flowers. It was a fragile beauty, one he doubted the men appreciated.
From behind, the cadence of voices drifted forward. Soldiers spoke in low tones, some trading jokes meant to steady nerves, others whispering about omens and the uncertainty of the road ahead. He caught snatches: a man swearing the ravens flying east were ill luck, another arguing the warmth of the season promised an easier campaign. Basen’s sharper voice occasionally rose above the rest, chiding men into order, his youth tempered by the iron edge of discipline drilled into him since birth.
General Han rode a few paces back, his deep timbre carrying in measured bursts as he reviewed formations with his captains. Unlike the soldiers’ chatter, his words bore the weight of command, and none dared to interrupt.
Zuigetsu listened without turning his head, storing each tone, each fragment. The march was only beginning, yet already he felt the rhythm of the army threading itself together—the clash of worry and resolve, hope and fear. And through it all, he remained the silent center, the figure upon the black stallion whose every gesture was watched, interpreted, judged.
The stallion tossed its mane once more, and he steadied it with a firm hand, eyes never leaving the horizon. The path stretched onward, uncertain and endless. He exhaled slowly, the mist of his breath vanishing into the morning air, and pressed his mount forward.
Time flowed at a pace much different to what he'd known, in hours that passed like minutes and then ten or so minutes of challenging terrain that felt like hours.
Scouts rode back at a brisk pace, their mounts flecked with sweat, steamed breath billowing like dragons in the morning air. The men dismounted before the leading officers with a bow that betrayed urgency.
Zuigetsu guided his stallion forward, the animal snorting as if it too sensed the shift. The report was short, clipped: the road ahead had collapsed where winter floods had undermined the earth. A wide gash yawned across the route, the banks still damp, a sluggish stream threading through the middle. The wagons could not cross, and attempting to press the cavalry forward would risk breaking ankles, losing beasts, or worse.
Colonel Wei frowned, his jaw tightening as he studied the rough sketch drawn into the dirt by the scout’s finger. “A half-day lost if we detour south. The land grows marshy there. Horses would mire.”
Commander Xu Liang folded his arms, gaze narrowed in thought. “We could send men to shore up a temporary crossing. Fell trees, lash them into a span. It would take time, but the supplies could pass safely.”
General Han, who had been silent until then, shifted in his saddle, his voice carrying the weight of one who had weathered too many campaigns. “Or,” he countered, “we drive the men hard to the north. The ground rises there. The slope is steep, but solid. We would not lose as much time as with the marsh. Though the climb will tax both man and beast.”
The officers turned their eyes toward Zuigetsu. The choice was not theirs to make—not openly.
Zuigetsu’s gaze lingered on the sketch carved into the dirt. Marshland meant mire and rot; a climb meant breathless, stumbling men before their first battle. A bridge was slower, but controlled—measured. He exhaled, steady and deliberate, and the reins settled slack in his hand.
“We cut the trees. Build the crossing,” he announced, voice level but firm. “It will cost us hours, but we’ll cross with our strength intact. Better to march late into the night than bleed away men and supplies before we’ve even faced the enemy.”
The air seemed to shift. Colonel Wei’s head dipped at once, approval flickering across his stern features. His kind of order—practical, disciplined, rooted in the slow surety of logistics. He murmured assent, already barking for men to ready axes and ropes.
Commander Xu Liang raised a brow, not unkindly, but with a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “A cautious move,” he remarked, the words balancing between respect and the test of a man curious how far Zuigetsu’s prudence would extend. He gave a short nod all the same, falling in line without protest.
General Han’s weathered eyes stayed on Zuigetsu longer. A veteran’s gaze—measuring not only the decision, but the man who gave it. After a moment, he inclined his head slowly.
The murmurs around them rose again, soldiers quickening into action. Axes bit into bark, the sharp rhythm echoing across the clearing. The stream gurgled on, indifferent to their labors.
Zuigetsu’s stallion shifted beneath him, and he tightened his knees absently, the horse moved forward briskly. His chest felt taut, not from doubt, but from the weight of being measured and found—for now—acceptable.
The choice had been made. Now it was a matter of proving it had been the right one.
Zuigetsu swung one leg over the stallion’s flank and slid down with a quiet thud, his boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. The horse snorted, pawing the earth in agitation, and shaking in relief to have the prince away from his bit while mocking his stiff landing. He gathered the reins and held them out without a word.
Basen was there before the motion had fully settled, his hand steady as he accepted the leather reins. His eyes flicked briefly toward Zuigetsu, an unspoken question caught in the shadow of his brow.
Zuigetsu gave the smallest nod, and Basen turned to lead the animal aside and away from the mares. The Prince watches rooted in place, seeing ears flip forward and flirtatious nickers and tail whips as the herd lead passed. He had seen this behavior in the Rear palace. Though Zui could feel a headache growing, Basen’s presence remained a silent anchor against the restless chaos of the camp.
Zuigetsu adjusted the sleeves of his padded coat, then stepped into the circle of labor. Men grunted as axes rang, wood splintering in sharp cracks that echoed off the wet stone banks.
He reached for a tool propped against a half-felled trunk, the weight of the haft solid in his hand. It was grounding—clean work, stripped of politics and courts, only sweat and timber and the promise of progress.
Before he could lift the blade, a voice cut through the din.
“Imperial brother.”
Colonel Wei approached, posture rigid but his eyes glinting with something keener than respect.
His armor caught the pale light, dulled from use rather than polished for show. The colonel inclined his head with a soldier’s precision, but his words carried an undertone of intent.
“Your grip is clean enough for the axe,” he remarked, gaze sliding to the tool in Zuigetsu’s hand. “But I wish to know your grip with a blade. Will you humor me? A brief spar—steel dulled, of course.
Around them, the rhythm of labor stuttered as ears tilted their way. Not openly, not rudely, but the lull in axes and ropes was palpable. A spar between the Emperor’s brother and a seasoned colonel was no small spectacle.
Zuigetsu’s fingers flexed around the haft of the axe. The request was both a test and a risk—accept, and he revealed something of himself; decline, and whispers would surely breed. Funny how even in the army politics finds its home.
He raised his eyes to Wei’s, calm and unflinching.
“I had come to swing wood, Colonel,” he answered evenly, voice low enough to force silence to stretch for his words. “But if your measure is what the men require, then I will grant it.”
A murmur rippled through the camp. Wei’s lips curved faintly, not mockery but satisfaction, as he gestured toward an open stretch of packed earth already scuffed from boots.
The axes resumed, slower this time, as men shifted their weight and found excuses to angle closer, their labor drawn like moths to the anticipation of sparks.
Zuigetsu set the axe aside, the wood cold against his palm as he let it fall away. Basen reappeared at the periphery, the stallion already secured, his posture taut, watchful, ready to intervene if honor tilted toward danger.
Steel would sing soon.
Basen drew near as Zuigetsu followed Colonel Wei toward the stretch of open ground. His voice was pitched low, for his master’s ear alone.
“You didn’t need to take that bait,” Basen murmured, his jaw tight, eyes darting toward the gathering men. “He goaded you into it. Letting it pass would have proven more than enough.”
Zuigetsu’s lips pressed faintly, neither smile nor frown, only a curve that carried the weight of certainty. “No. If I leave such challenges to fester, they will sprout again and again—different mouths, same poison. This is the cleaner cut.” He shifted his shoulders, the padded coat settling into place. “Better they see it settled here than whispered about for weeks.”
Basen exhaled sharply through his nose, unhappy yet subdued. “Then make it quick. No lingering wounds to be patched later.”
Zuigetsu’s eyes softened just slightly as he answered, “Quick, then.”
The circle of men widened as Colonel Wei tossed a dulled practice blade toward him. Zuigetsu caught it one-handed, letting the weight settle into his palm. The balance was serviceable, the edge blunted but still enough to sting flesh and crack bone if struck carelessly. Wei already held his own weapon with easy familiarity, twirling it once in a flourish.
“You honor me, Imperial brother,” Wei spoke with a bow, though the curve of his grin belied more than courtesy. “May your form match your blood.”
Zuigetsu did not rise to it. He only lowered into a ready stance, feet squared yet staggered shoulders length apart, blade steady, breath even. The ring of soldiers hushed.
The first clash rang sharp. Wei advanced with the confidence of a man who had danced a hundred duels—fast, precise strokes that forced Zuigetsu to step back, boots grinding into the packed earth, armor clacking against his frame.
Wei’s strikes came from angles meant to confuse, his movements a fluid mix of aggression and guile. Twice he feinted, aiming low before darting high, forcing Zuigetsu to meet the steel at the last instant.
But where Wei was wild in creativity, Zuigetsu was unwavering in discipline. His grip never faltered. His footwork was measured, anchored in quiet strength and quick bursts.
Zui’s pride swore he’d move much faster without the metal weighting his movements down, but that argument wouldn’t serve him at all on the battlefield. The weight pulled at his center, and bulk of leather and metal echoed his movements by fractions of a second.
He yielded ground without panic, absorbing each strike as if he had foreseen it, never wasting motion. His face betrayed no strain, no triumph—only calm calculation.
The onlookers murmured louder as the duel lengthened. Endurance and adjustment making way for more aggressive tactics. Wei’s swings grew bolder, his taunts sharper. “You defend well enough, but defense cannot end a battle!” he barked, circling to strike at Zuigetsu’s exposed side.
It was there his hubris cracked the edge of caution. In pressing too quickly, Wei overextended, his foot skidding just slightly on the loose soil.
Zuigetsu locked onto it with marksman precision.
His blade surged forward in that narrow window, keen as a hawk’s strike. He slid past Wei’s guard and, with a twist of his wrist, knocked the weapon from the colonel’s hand. The dulled steel spun through the air before clattering harmlessly onto the earth.
Wei froze, staring at the empty grip of his own hand. Zuigetsu’s blade hovered inches from his chest, steady, unshaking.
The soldiers were still buzzing, some laughing nervously, others whispering in awe. Colonel Wei retrieved his weapon from the dirt with more dignity than most could manage, though his ears burned crimson.
From the edge of the circle, Commander Xu Liang folded his arms, his sharp eyes glinting. His voice cut through the din like a blade honed too fine.
“Well, Colonel,” Xu drawled, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, “I suppose now we know what happens when a peacock tries to strut in a hawk’s shadow. All feathers, no talons.”
A ripple of laughter broke through the crowd, muffled but irrepressible. Wei stiffened, jaw clenching, but he could not retort without drawing more attention to his defeat. Xu only smirked, letting the words hang in the air like a banner.
Zuigetsu drew a slow breath, steadying the pulse in his chest as he lowered the dull blade fully. Dust clung to the edges of his boots, and the murmurs of the gathered soldiers pressed around him like an unseen tide.
He stepped toward Colonel Wei, his posture neither gloating nor meek, but level and precise. Zuigetsu dipped his chin.
“Colonel,” his voice carried just enough weight to reach those straining to listen, “I thank you for the match. Your skill is not in question—only my fortune in seizing a moment you gave me. Had I shown the same lapse, I’ve no doubt you would have ended this contest in kind.”
The words hung deliberate, not crafted for Wei’s ears alone, but for the men who had just witnessed their exchange. A quiet murmur rippled outward—less a jeer, more an acknowledgment.
Taking note of all the people watching, Zui made his way off to the side.
One of the archers—a young man with his hair tied in a crooked knot—hurried forward with a clay jug in his hands. He gave a clumsy bow before extending it toward Zuigetsu, his grin wide and earnest. “My lord, it’s not fine wine, but the water runs fresh from the mountain stream. Cold enough to bite the tongue, sweeter than anything we’ve had since leaving the city.”
The other soldier, older, with shoulders stooped from years of carrying armor, held out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Inside lay dried venison strips, tough but rich with salt and smoke. He offered it without ceremony, his face lined with honest pride. “For strength, my lord. You’ll need it on the road ahead.”
The men hovered, chatter spilling from them in bursts, the fatigue of the work behind them replaced by the giddy relief of proving themselves useful.
“Did you see, Captain? The marsh nearly swallowed Wei’s boots!” one of the archers laughed, mimicking the colonel’s furious stomping earlier.
“And you nearly lost your bow in the water, fool,” the older soldier retorted, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. “You’d have had to throw rocks instead.”
Their voices held no malice, only the camaraderie of men who had sweated together, now proud to stand before the imperial brother. They glanced at Zuigetsu often, half-expecting a rebuke for their looseness, half-hoping he would join them.
Zuigetsu accepted the jug, tilting it for a sip. The water was as promised—sharp, clean, grounding. Passing it back with a nod, he plucked one of the venison strips from the bundle. The salt stung his tongue, but it filled the hollow ache left by the spar.
General Han approached, his boots crunching over the scattered ice. Even from a distance, his posture was precise, the weight of command settling over him like a mantle. “Crowned Prince,” he called, voice carrying over the low chatter of the foot soldiers, “the bridge is secure. It took longer due to their distraction, but the men have finished reinforcing the timbers. It will hold the carriages and cavalry without risk.”
Zuigetsu’s gaze followed the path ahead, the frozen river now split by the solid arch of wood, each plank fastened with careful precision. He could hear the echo of hammers fading behind the men who had labored through the late morning. Relief mixed with a tightening in his chest; the march could continue, but he knew the days ahead would not yield such minor victories.
He inclined his head toward Han, the slightest flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. “Good work,” he murmured, tone measured yet warm. “Your men have done the empire proud.”
Han gave a subtle bow, lips pressing into a thin line. “All in service, Your Highness. They follow where you lead.”
It didn’t take long for Zui to spot his stallion sequestered away from all the other horses. Overlooking how he projected his own feelings of out-of-placeness onto the beast, the stallion seemed more content than he with his situation.
With each movement separated into easy steps replaying in his head, Zui mounted up with less than graceful ease. Briefly he wondered if it was his weight or lack of finesse that had an ear sharply flicking back at him.
Zuigetsu took a deep breath, letting the morning chill fill his lungs, grounding him. He nudged his stallion lightly, feeling the animal shift and settle under him, ears panning more relaxed, steady and alert. “Then we move forward. Infantry first, carriages behind, archers covering the flanks. Keep watch for weak spots along the banks.”
The officers echoed his orders, crisp and synchronized, their voices carrying confidence and discipline. Zuigetsu could feel the undercurrent of anticipation and tension in the men, the weight of the path ahead pressing in, yet bolstered by the small victory of the bridge.
Reins loose and legs tight he encouraged his stallion forward, Zuigetsu’s eyes swept the frost frozen expanse before them where the warmth of spring had yet to thaw. The sun was higher now, he felt the reins tighten in his hand as the other found the stallion's smooth fur.
“Forward,” he commanded. The word was simple, yet it carried all the authority of his station, all the silent assurance that he would lead, and that they would follow.
The procession stirred, carriages creaking as they rolled onto the bridge, foot soldiers adjusting their packs and gripping spears, archers raising their bows. Zuigetsu rode at the forefront, every eye behind him fixed, every breath measured. The march had resumed, steady and unbroken, the sound of hooves, wood, and leather marking the beginning of the day’s long journey.
The wind lifted slightly, carrying the scent of pine and the faint smoke of distant fires, a reminder that the path ahead would not be easy.
Zui allowed his gaze to drift in the hours that followed, taking in the faint mist rising from the fields they passed. For a moment, he could almost imagine the palace gardens, where mornings were marked by songbirds and drifting petals. Here, however, the music was human: the soldiers’ conversations. He did not need to strain to hear them—low voices carried clearly enough in the crisp air.
Behind him, two younger soldiers whispered with barely restrained energy, comparing wagers on when they would first see the enemy. Their words brimmed with false bravado, laughter pitched sharp with nerves. Another pair further back muttered of supplies, one fretting that dried rations might not last if the march stretched longer than expected. The man he now knew as a Captain hushed them with a curt remark, reminding them that discipline was as important as food.
A different tone cut through when Colonel Wei’s horse drew nearer, his posture unyielding in the saddle though his mount shifted impatiently beneath him. His voice, pitched with steady authority, addressed Zuigetsu without ceremony but with the respect due his rank.
“The men are restless, Your Highness. Marches such as these weigh heavily after the first few hours. We should press on with purpose before doubts fester.”
Before Zuigetsu could reply, Commander Xu Liang rode closer as well, his expression sharper, almost eagle-like in its scrutiny. “The column remains intact,” he remarked, as though presenting a ledger of discipline. “Still, their eyes are drifting toward you. They will move with nimbler feet if the order to advance comes from your lips.”
The air seemed to pause between them, the unspoken truth hanging clear: his presence was both burden and anchor, and his word would be the spark that kept the march aligned.
It didn't take a hawk to spot the curt glare Wei threw towards the Commander.
Zuigetsu tightened his hold on the reins, straightened in the saddle, and let his voice carry over the steady thunder of hooves. “We continue without falter. Let the day’s march set our pace for all that follows.”
The murmurs stilled. A ripple passed down the line, soldiers adjusting grips, straightening backs, heels pressing firmer to stir their horses and their own resolve. For a heartbeat, Zuigetsu forgot the pain of his hips, the raw ache of riding. His words had done what they must.
The procession moved on, deeper into the awakening countryside, the road unrolling ahead like an endless thread leading toward shadow and fire.