From the heated silk pavilions of the high nobility, the men fighting in the frozen mud below looked like crickets battling inside a glazed fine china bowl.
Thick charcoal fire bowls of burning pear wood radiated a sweet, dry heat through the north pavilion. Silver screens lined with oiled sheepskin kept the biting mountain gale at bay, while attendants in green silk liveries refilled gold-chased goblets with warmed wine spiced with cloves and dried longan.
Governor Wei Yuan leaned back against a cushioned rosewood couch, his heavy brocade robes draped over his lap.
He was a man in his late fifties, his beard threaded with silver. His eyes hooded and was dark with the tiredness of an administrator who had spent thirty years balancing royal quotas against country corruption. Before him sat a lacquered table covered in urgent military dispatches, their wax seals stamped with the three black triangles of the Northern Frontier Command.
To his left sat Marquis Xie, high-born, slender, and immaculately groomed, idly turning a white jade ring on his thumb.
To his right sat Garrison Commander Gao Ren, a broad, thick-necked military officer whose breastplate was fashioned from lacquered iron scales trimmed with brass rivets.
“The northern border is collapsing, Gentlemen,” Governor Wei murmured, his voice pitched so only his two senior councilmen could hear. “Fort Ironpass has lost three outer edge redoubts. Shaman-King Helan Sha’s forward cavalry has burned six granaries along the Red River post road. The Imperial Ministry of War in the capital…
