The wind atop the central granite bluff was sharp enough to slice through silk.
Standing upon the raised platform of the Nine-Dragon War Chariot, Crown Prince Zhao Lie glared down across the snowy expanse at Camp Hope. Beneath his heavy mantle of black dragon-bear fur, his stance was rigid. His bloodshot eyes burned with unhinged, feverish pride.
Behind him, Grand Teacher Mo Wuji stood motionless in his trailing charcoal vestments. The withered old man held his string of thirty-six human finger-bone beads. It rolled them slowly between semi-clear fingers that never seemed to register the bitter frost.
“Look at them, Teacher,” Zhao Lie snarled. He pointed a trembling, gauntleted hand at the sprawling city of white pavilions five miles away. “One hundred thousand traitors, thieves, and runaway serfs, daring to pitch their canvas within sight of my banners! They think because they crossed a frozen river, they’re beyond the reach of royal justice!”
“They’re lost sheep, Your Imperial Highness,” Mo Wuji whispered, his dry voice rustling like dead autumn reeds in an abandoned ditch. “Lured away by the whispered enchantments of the eastern slime. They have forfeited the protection of the Golden Sun Empire. Their lives are forfeit. Their blood belongs to the dynastic altar.”
