By the third hour of the morning, the courtyard of Watchpost Seven was bathed in the pale, cold light of an alpine sunrise.
The sixty regular sentries of the border guard post stood formed in three disciplined ranks across the crushed granite parade ground. They were shivering in their worn sheepskin vests and battered bronze armor, their breath misting white in the freezing air, their eyes wide with nervous dread. For years, these men had known only neglect, corruption, and the lingering threat of starvation. Now, seeing their commander bound and broken, they feared the arrival of a royal headsman.
In the center of the courtyard, tied securely to the stone whipping post, was Captain Zhao.
The corrupt commander was a pathetic, ruined sight. Both of his broken forearms were bound in crude splints of pine bark. His bronze armor had been stripped away, and his greasy mustaches were frozen with snot and dried blood. Beside him, tied to the hitching rail with hemp rope, sat the forty captured shock-troopers of the Flying Crane Sect, their heads bowed between their knees, their midnight-blue shadow-silk robes torn and stained with soot.
Lin Tao stood upon the raised timber platform of the watchtower steps, wearing his clean charcoal linen tunic, the star-iron Chief Checker’s token catching the early sun on his hip.
