Chen Wuya's hand still rested on the military dispatch, the edge of its wax seal pressing into his fingertips. The wind before the palace gates had grown colder than before, plastering his robe against his legs like a thin sheet of ice wrapping around him.
Bai Zhi stood at his side. She did not ask again, merely let her gaze sweep over his lowered lashes. That look was no longer as sharp as it had been in the hall; instead, it was heavy, as though something weighed upon it.
"Yan Song has fallen," he said quietly. "Yet the Northern Desert chooses this moment to make a move."
He looked neither at her nor at the sky. The words left his mouth like a stone cast into a well—no echo returned, yet he knew something was stirring below.
Hoofbeats drew closer from afar as a lone rider came galloping in, kicking dust half a foot into the air. The man rolled from the saddle and dropped to one knee, his armor striking the ground with a dull thud.
"Vanguard Chen! Three western beacon towers went dark at the same time last night. The patrol found hoofprints on the outskirts of Blackwater Slope—deep and densely packed, not left by herdsmen!"
Chen Wuya finally opened the envelope, pulled out the paper within, and skimmed it quickly. The handwriting was hurried, but the contents were clear: from the hour of Xu to the hour of Hai last night, three beacon towers had failed to light their fires according to protocol; two guards had gone missing, and all that remained was a broken arrow shaft embedded in the earth, its fletching blackened as if scorched by fire.
He folded the letter and tucked it back into his robes.
"It isn't a false report," he said.