Roots fed on salt. Frost rose in iron. But the crown's hush did not lie buried under orchard soil.
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At Tian's Watch gate, dusk crept in cold and sharp. The frost banner snapped high over churned mud — pale blue ghost rune flickering where Yue Lan's threads had stitched rumor into silk.
Li Shen stood just beneath it, blade resting bare across his shoulder. Behind him, orchard fathers hammered fresh iron into spearheads on rust-bitten anvils. Mothers melted crown salt to trade for pitch and coal. Children piled bundles of frost herbs under the old orchard shrine — offerings for rumor's breath to bind wounds yet unspilled.
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Master Tian sat slumped on his stump. His cough was a rattle softened by a grin that still bared more teeth than any crown's hush.
He spat once, as if testing the frost. "You think rumor's roar scares iron fangs?" he rasped. "The crown's teeth are older than salt. Older than roots."
Li Shen's eyes stayed on the ridge path — where dusk shadows tangled in pine trunks heavy with silence.
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Yue Lan drifted behind the fence, spirit threads tasting wind that smelled of pine pitch, oiled mail, stale blood. Her voice brushed Li Shen's ear — frost cold enough to sting.
"Forty riders," she whispered. "Iron armor. War drums. Pale Host broken, fire monks drowned — now they send old fangs."
Li Shen's jaw flexed. His palm tapped the Wolfchain banner's pole — the Fang's dagger stitched into its hem a promise older than the orchard hush.
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"They think iron breaks rumor," he said. "Roots break stone. Frost breaks fire. Tonight, rumor bites iron."
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The orchard hands gathered behind the gate. Fathers braced spear shafts across the fence rails. Mothers piled pitch oil jars in shallow trenches — ready to feed flame to iron when hush struck roots. Yue Lan flicked frost runes into the oil jars, binding spark to hush so the orchard would burn only when rumor demanded ash, not before.
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Dusk broke full dark when the drums rolled — low, like thunder chewing frost. Hooves cracked pine roots where the ridge trail twisted. Black armor gleamed between trees — serpent runes hammered into breastplates, old oaths etched into blade hilts.
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At their head rode a figure in crowned iron — his mask beaten flat, a single serpent rune carved from throat to brow. His spear was not crowned iron, but old orchard ash bound in black steel — rumor turned against itself.
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He halted ten paces from the broken fence. Lifted his spear so the dusk fire flickered along its shaft.
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"Li Shen," he called — voice deep, steady, a hush that did not waver. "Once you wore the chain that breaks rumor. Once you bowed at the salt vault's door."
Li Shen stepped forward. Frost cracked under his boots.
"I still wear it," he said. He lifted the Wolfchain banner high — the ghost rune stitched in pale frost glow. The Fang's dagger glinted at its hem, a single tooth bared.
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The iron rider's spear dipped once.
"You stand root-bound behind rotted fence rails," the rider said. "The crown's teeth do not rot."
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Yue Lan's threads drifted wide, wrapping Li Shen's wrist — frost coiling cold promise into his veins.
Li Shen's grin split dusk like a blade splitting hush.
"Roots drink teeth," he called. "Come feed them."
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Behind him, orchard fathers dropped flint into pitch oil jars. Mothers braced fresh spears along frost trenches. Children pulled frost herbs from their bundles — ready to press rumor's hush into wounds when iron struck.
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The rider lowered his spear. Drums rolled — iron boots struck frost mud in rhythm older than orchard roots.
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Li Shen stepped forward — blade bare, grin wide. The frost banner snapped overhead. Yue Lan's spirit threads flicked frost sigils across the churned trench — cold enough to bite iron to hush when the crown's fangs sank deep.
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Roots drink deep.
Iron bleeds too.
Tonight, rumor bites back.
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⚡ End of Chapter Thirty-Two — Crown's Teeth
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