Chapter 10: Whispers of Alliance
The embers of the funeral pyre still lingered in the villagers' memory when word of the battle spread beyond Qing. Messengers carried the tale on swift feet—how a clan of farmers and hunters had stood against the dreaded Wei and lived. Some told it as a miracle, others as madness. But all agreed: something had awakened in the land of Qing.
For three days, the village was a hive of movement. Women wove new bandages and cooked meals for the wounded, while blacksmiths, their arms slick with sweat, worked late into the night reforging bent spears and repairing dented armor. Children ran errands with faces too young for such burdens, their eyes wide with pride and fear in equal measure.
The riverbank, once a place of mourning, had become a line of defense. Wooden stakes had been driven into the earth, sharpened points angled outward. Watchtowers rose crudely from felled trees, and every able-bodied man took shifts keeping the fires burning.
It was not enough, Khan knew.
Standing atop the half-finished palisade, he looked over the land that stretched beyond. The fields shimmered under the late sun, but peace was a thin veil here. Somewhere out there, the Wei Clan was licking its wounds, preparing to strike again.
Han Long climbed the ladder behind him, wincing as his injured arm protested. "You look like a man trying to stare holes into the horizon," he muttered, settling beside Khan.
Khan did not smile. "I'm counting the days we have left. Two weeks, maybe three, before the Wei return."
Han Long grunted. "Then we need more men. More blades. And more than this village can give."
Khan nodded. "Which means we need allies."
That evening, Khan gathered the council inside the longhouse. Smoke from the central fire curled upward, carrying the bitter scent of burning resin. Around the circle sat Han Long, Mei Lan, Zhang Wei, and several village elders. Their faces were carved with weariness, but their eyes held expectation.
Khan began without preamble. "The Wei will not let this insult stand. They will return in force. When they do, Qing alone cannot withstand them. We must seek alliances with the other river villages, perhaps even with the mountain tribes."
The elders exchanged wary looks. One of them, Old Bao with his white beard and hawk-like gaze, spoke first. "The river villages will not fight for us. They will say you brought this war upon Qing, that the Wei would have left us alone if not for your defiance."
"They will say that," Khan admitted, "but they will also know the truth—that the Wei will come for them next. We are their shield, whether they admit it or not. If Qing falls, they are next."
Another elder shook her head. "And the mountain tribes? They are wolves, not allies. They raid for food and coin. They care nothing for our survival."
Zhang Wei cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles. "Perhaps not, but wolves respect strength. If they see that Qing bloodied the Wei, they may think twice about dismissing us. They may even see value in cooperation—so long as we make it worth their while."
Han Long snorted. "Cooperation bought with bribes is no cooperation at all. They will take what they can and betray us when it suits them."
Mei Lan, who had been silent, finally spoke. Her voice was soft, but it carried. "Not all alliances are bound by coin or blood. Some are bound by vision. If we can show them a future where the Wei no longer dominate, perhaps they will follow—not for what we give, but for what we represent."
The firelight caught Khan's eyes as he looked at her. Vision. That word echoed in him. He had seen the mark of the primordial world blaze in the darkness. He knew that what was happening was more than survival. It was the birth of something greater.
"I will speak with them myself," Khan said. His tone left no room for debate. "If they will not come to Qing, then Qing will go to them."
The decision was made. Two days later, Khan set out with a small escort: Han Long, stubborn despite his injury; Zhang Wei, armed with maps and scrolls; and Mei Lan, who insisted the journey would need a healer as much as it needed warriors.
The road led them north along the river. The first village they reached was Fengli, a place of fishermen and net-weavers. Its people watched the approaching party with suspicion, hands tight on their oars and spears.
The headman, a wiry man named Jao, greeted them on the docks with narrowed eyes. "Qing brings trouble," he said bluntly. "Word spreads faster than water flows. You defied the Wei. You will draw their fury upon us all."
Khan did not flinch. "The Wei were already coming. We only revealed their hunger sooner."
Jao spat into the water. "And when their hunger grows? When they send not one warband but three? Will you shield us then?"
"We will," Khan answered. "But not if we stand alone. Join us. Stand now, together, and the Wei will bleed before they reach your shores."
The villagers murmured, their faces uncertain. Jao's eyes flickered, betraying fear, but he shook his head. "We are fishermen, not warriors. We will not gamble our lives on your defiance."
With that, the door to Fengli closed.
The rejection did not crush Khan—it steeled him. For every coward, he knew there were others watching, waiting. The road wound further north, through fields and sparse woodlands. Each village gave the same response: fear disguised as pragmatism.
It was on the fourth day, as the group neared the foothills, that they encountered something different.
Smoke rose in the distance, not from hearthfires but from torches. Figures emerged from the treeline—lean, sharp-eyed warriors clad in furs and leather. Their weapons were crude but deadly, their faces painted with streaks of ash.
The mountain tribe.
Their leader, a broad-shouldered woman with braids tied in bone clasps, stepped forward. Her gaze swept over Khan and his companions, pausing on the dragon-marked token that hung from his belt.
"You are the one who stood against the Wei," she said, her voice low, rough as gravel. "The one who made them bleed."
Khan inclined his head. "I am."
She studied him for a long moment, then laughed, a sound sharp as iron striking stone. "Good. We have waited years for someone with teeth. Tell me, man of Qing—do you bite only when cornered, or do you hunt?"
Khan's answer was steady, his voice carrying across the clearing. "We hunt."
The woman's smile widened, fierce and wolfish. "Then perhaps we will run with you."
When the night fell, the Qing party shared fires with the mountain tribe. Stories of the Wei's cruelty spilled freely—of villages razed, of children stolen for slaves. Rage simmered in the warriors' voices, their hatred of the Wei as raw as any wound.
And for the first time, Khan felt the threads of something greater weaving together. Qing was no longer just a village clinging to survival. It was becoming a banner, one that others might gather beneath.
The road ahead was uncertain. Betrayal was possible. But so too was unity.
As he stared into the fire, Khan felt the token at his side pulse again, faint but insistent. The primordial world was not silent. It was watching.
And it was waiting.