The first fortress fell before sunrise.
Zhou's vanguard hit the stone like a hammer striking wet clay, shattering the northern watchtower and sending its defenders screaming down the ravine. A plume of dust rose where the battlements had stood. The next tower lit its distress fires. Then the next. And the next.
From Ling An's northern parapets, the flames looked like a line of dying stars.
A scout stumbled into the throne room, bleeding, half-conscious.
"Your Majesty," he gasped, "Zhou has passed the Iron Pass. They march with— with no pause— they—"
He collapsed before finishing.
Wu Jin didn't need the rest. He could see the truth spreading across the map like frost: Zhou was no longer testing the He Lian dynasty.
Zhou intended to erase it.
He gripped the table edge until his knuckles whitened. "Damn it… damn it, Father, you knew this was coming."
The generals erupted.
"We must recall the southern troops—"
"No, we must abandon the north and hold the capital—"
"We cannot fight two fronts!"
Wu Jin slammed his palm against the table.
"Silence!"
The hall quieted, but the fear thickened.
Two fronts.
Two invading powers.
Two jaws closing.
He stared at the map, at the borders now glowing in his mind with the second bell's echo.
Then suddenly—
he knew.
He saw the pattern.
He saw why the Lord Protector had placed him here.
Why the armies were split.
Why the sacrifices had already begun.
The war itself wasn't a tragedy—
It was a design.
A ritual.
And Wu Jin felt cold seep into his bones.
Far to the south, the marshlands churned beneath the march of the Emperor's forces. The Southern King rode beside him, armor polished, expression hollow.
Ahead, Hei scouts clashed with the first wave of southern riders. The sound of battle rose like metal grinding against bone.
The King kept glancing at the Emperor.
"Your Majesty… when we reach Ling An, do you intend to negotiate?"
The Emperor's smile was serene, terrifying.
"Kings negotiate. I don't."
"But the northern dynasty—"
"The He Lian line is a bridge," the Emperor said. "A bridge built by the wrong architect. I will return the Mandate to its rightful river."
He looked sidelong at the King.
"And you, of course, will remain my loyal servant."
The King bowed low.
But deep inside a thought bloomed:
I may not survive serving this man.
Just beyond the desert edge, Shen Yue stopped abruptly.
"An," she said. "The sky."
I looked up.
The sky over Ling An was bleeding.
Not with light—
with intention.
Something pressed against the heavens, bending them toward the tower, toward the city, toward the place where my father stood.
The being inside me stirred in recognition.
He prepares the circle.
"The war?" I whispered.
The sacrifice, it corrected.
I felt my stomach twist. "All these fronts… all these deaths…"
He feeds the tower, the being murmured, almost approving. Life into blood. Blood into heat. Heat into opening. He shapes a ritual from the bones of two kingdoms.
My breath tightened.
"Shuang," I said.
The being pulsed.
She is the axis. The center. The hinge upon which he intends to turn the world.
Shen Yue's hand tightened around mine.
"Are you saying—Wu Shuang is part of a ritual?"
"No," I said slowly.
"She is the ritual."
We mounted the horses again.
"Then we ride," Shen Yue said.
The being whispered like a blade laid against my throat.
You fear him still.
"I fear what he's building."
And what am I?
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was sickening:
I wasn't sure which of them—my father or the being—was the greater danger now.
In Ling An, Wu Shuang stood alone in the Lotus Hall.
The tower's light washed the stones in silver. Her shadow stretched unnaturally long, as if something behind her were taller than the hall allowed.
She touched her chest.
Her pulse beat in patterns she no longer recognized.
The second bell's toll had done something to her.
Not harm.
Not possession.
Something like resonance.
The tower hummed in answer.
Her father appeared behind her, silent as a blade drawn in prayer.
"It begins," he said.
She didn't turn. "What am I in this, Father?"
He smiled at her back.
"Necessary."
Her hands tightened at her sides. "And after the war?"
"After?" he echoed. "There is no 'after' until the gates open."
"What gates?"
He touched a finger to her forehead.
"Ask not about what your blood already knows."
For the first time in her life, Wu Shuang took a step away from him.
"Jin will realize," she whispered.
"He already has," the Lord Protector said. "And he will act exactly as I expect."
He leaned close enough that she felt the cold of him.
"You and your brothers are threads. I am the loom."
Her heartbeat stuttered.
Something deep within her—something ancient and still—responded to the tower's pulse.
She didn't understand it.
Not yet.
But she would.
Wu Jin stood on the outer balcony, staring at the burning horizon where Zhou forces descended like storms.
General Han approached. "Your Majesty, the troops await your command."
Wu Jin didn't answer.
Instead, he whispered:
"Father placed me here to fail. To bleed. To lose just enough men to feed the tower."
He inhaled sharply.
"But I will not die his pawn."
He turned to the general, eyes hardening.
"Prepare the Inner Formation. Pull back the Western Gate regiment. Send false orders to Zhou's scouts. We will make them believe the city collapses—then strike when they overreach."
General Han bowed sharply. "Yes, sire."
Wu Jin watched the sky bleed.
"An," he whispered. "Where are you?"
I saw Ling An before its walls rose into view.
Smoke.
Flashes of steel.
The faint vibration of the tower humming with hunger.
The being inside me pulsed.
He calls you.
"I know."
He wants your blood in the circle.
"I know."
He wants your sister at the center.
"I know."
The being paused.
And you intend to stop him.
"Yes."
It laughed softly.
Then let us begin.
Shen Yue drew closer.
"Whatever happens," she said, "I'm with you. Against your father. Against the tower. Against the thing inside you, if I must."
I nodded.
"Good," I said quietly. "Because we're out of time."
War thundered on two horizons—
—and my father's ritual waited in the heart of the city.
The bell would ring again.
And if it did,
nothing
would
survive
unchanged.