Dawn was colorless, the sort of pale that forgets which direction the sun belongs to. From the east came the first horns — low, patient, not challenge but announcement. From the west came drums with shorter tempers. Between them, Ye Cheng breathed in and out like a chest that had just remembered it was mortal.
On the north wall, Li Qiang stood with his hand against the parapet's damp stone. "Two armies," he said. "One hungry, one vain."
Ziyan joined him, cloak snapping once before the wind lost interest. "Then we'll feed one and embarrass the other."
Feiyan appeared without sound, eyes rimmed with smoke from her work in the southern quarter. "The prefect's old garrison has chosen sides. Ours." She said it without triumph; the word ours was a fragile thing and everyone heard it break slightly.
Wei's laughter rolled up from the courtyard. "I told them we'd hang their names on banners if they stayed. They think it's an honor. I didn't tell them the banners might burn."
Ren crossed the yard carrying a rolled map, edges singed from the kiln. He unrolled it on the parapet, pinning corners with stones. "Xia from the east — five thousand if they still count the wounded. Zhang's western column smaller, but sharper. Both expect us to be afraid."
Ziyan studied the marks until the wind tried to rearrange them. "We'll show them we've learned new arithmetic."
By noon, the eastern banners were near enough to taste. Xia's soldiers built their camps with deliberate grace: lines straight as blades, tents pale as teeth. Across the river plain, Zhang's standards crawled from the dust like a rash, his lead commander signaling with a mirror to catch the afternoon sun — a glittering arrogance that made even the pigeons curse.
Han's riders held the outer trenches. Shuye's jars lay buried beneath the old market road, sealed with the scent of pitch and faith. Wei drilled the conscripts until exhaustion replaced doubt. Ren turned the schoolhouse into an infirmary; the chalkboard carried a single word in his neat hand: Endure.
As the light lowered, the city shrank to essentials. Doors barred. Kilns quenched. Women gathered water as if it were gossip, quickly, precisely, passing buckets with the rhythm of prayers learned too young.
Feiyan came to Ziyan near sunset, wiping soot from her palms. "They've found the false ledgers," she said. "Zhang's spies believe the grain is stored in the temple vaults."
"Good," Ziyan said. "Then we'll store it in the streets."
They spent the twilight moving sacks under the cover of incense smoke. Children carried rice as if playing a game, ducking between soldiers' legs. The city began to hum — not fear, but work. Even the stones seemed to join the noise, remembering what it was to resist.
The first arrows fell just after full dark. The sound was not thunder but rain that had forgotten gentleness. Shutters splintered, tiles leapt. Wei shouted once, wordless; the watchtowers answered with fire. Feiyan's knife caught the lamplight as she slashed through a tangle of ropes, sending a burning ladder backward into the night. Below, men screamed; above, the stars hid politely.
Ziyan moved through the corridors of her own command like a tide. She found Ren tending the first wounded. He looked up long enough to say, "They aim for noise. Not yet accuracy."
"Then make noise costly," she said. "If they wish for sound, give them silence to fear."
She left him with that and climbed to the north gate where Li Qiang was already bleeding from the shoulder, smiling as if to apologize for it. "They test, not strike," he said through his teeth. "Tomorrow they'll come properly."
"Then tomorrow," she said, binding his arm herself. "We answer properly."
The night stretched thin. At its heart, Feiyan found a Xia scout crawling through a culvert and killed him softly before the rats noticed. Han sent messengers along the rooftops — shadows that whispered coordinates instead of prayers. Shuye's traps took three more; each explosion folded the dark into itself.
When dawn returned, Ye Cheng still stood. Smoke laced the light but the walls were unbroken. In the square, Wei poured water over his face, mud streaking like new paint. "First verse done," he said. "How long's the poem?"
"As long as it needs to be," Ziyan replied.
From the east, a messenger under flag of truce approached, armor scorched, breath making small ghosts. He bowed low and presented a sealed parchment. To the Lady Li Ziyan, it read in crisp, foreign script. Surrender the city, and Xia will grant safety to all within. Resist, and we will teach your people what empire means.
Ziyan handed it to Feiyan, who tore it in half without asking. "We already know what empire means," she said. "It means forgetting who built the walls."
Ziyan smiled faintly. "Then we will remind them."
She turned to her commanders. "Today we don't defend. We perform. Make them believe the city is larger than its stones. When they break formation to chase what isn't real, we strike where it hurts most — their hunger."
Ren blinked. "You mean—"
"The granaries," Ziyan said. "They think we have more than we do. Let them see us throw it into the river."
Feiyan's grin was knife-thin. "You do like theatre."
"It's what rulers understand," Ziyan said.
By evening, the river glowed with scattered torches. Men on the walls hauled sacks into the air and slit them open. Grain poured out in golden sheets, catching firelight like rain made of suns. Xia's soldiers shouted, thinking madness had taken them. Zhang's watchers sent panicked messengers westward. Above the din, Ziyan raised her banner — pale cloth, blue thread — and the city shouted back in voices raw from disbelief.
"The road remembers!" Wei roared. "The road remembers!"
The chant spread through the smoke, through blood, through dust. The river carried the burned grain south, bright as molten gold. And for one heartbeat, even the two invading armies hesitated — not because they feared, but because they felt small.
Feiyan stood beside Ziyan on the wall and whispered, "They'll come harder for this."
"Yes," Ziyan said, eyes on the horizon where two suns of fire burned — one east, one west. "Now they know which city teaches."
Below, the drums stumbled, then found their rhythm again. Ye Cheng braced. The siege had learned its name, and the war its language.