“My lord, here’s the ledger for this round of military grain.” The blue-robed man, a strip of winter sky, set the cold parchment before the reader.

“How much got skimmed this time? Just say it. I’m too tired to even ask.” The City Lord didn’t lift his head, his voice dry as old paper.

“Sixty percent...” The man bit down and lowered his head, like grass pressed by snow.

“Heh. Looks like the capital’s brewing a good show.” The City Lord shook his head and closed the book, face calm as still water.

Miter Empire—its old king had been ill a year, the throne’s flame guttering close to ash.

Nine princes grew restless, hawks circling the crown like meat in the open.

For now, only the First, Second, and Third Princes rode the rising wind.

The others had few ministers behind them; they kept to quiet corners, candles trembling in the draft, afraid to join the storm.

Moon City was a county backwater; it had no seat to pick a side. The City Lord gave a wry smile, like frost cracking on stone.

“So the old king is finally going?” Regret washed through his eyes, a low tide under iron skies.

The Miter Empire had ruled the northern reaches for years, under the old king’s youthful steel and clear star.

He’d grown muddled in age, yet, on the whole, he was a wise ruler, a lantern in long night.

What would become of Miter’s tomorrow, when this lantern went dark?

“Strengthen the border garrisons. Moon City isn’t the first battlefield.” His gaze hardened, a blade catching dawn. “We’ll send troops to support Dilankstan.”

“The first front must not fall. Once the state steadies, our empire’s iron cavalry will trample those scavengers who loot a burning house.”

A knife-thin smile touched his mouth, cold as a north wind.

“My lord, our pay...” The blue robe hesitated, words like rain held back by eaves.

“Use those ‘nobles’ assets to pay the men. In troubled times, even parasites get squeezed.” He sipped the coffee, bitter as burnt bark, and frowned. “No—still can’t get used to this.”

“Yes, sir.” The blue robe slipped into the corridor’s shadow, a fish fading into deep water.

The City Lord lifted the fan on the stand, studying its lines like a map of storms.

Twenty-six silver rods formed the frame, each etched with runes, little rivers of script.

At each rod’s tip lay a clear ruby, a drop of sunset; iron blades linked the silver bones into wings.

A brocade cord wrapped the handle, tied to a jade carved into a bird whose name felt lost, like a call across fog.

He gave the fan a gentle flick. Lightning and whirlwind leapt out with a crack and a whoosh, smashing the tea table into splinters.

He breathed a soft praise, then murmured, “From the Far East... the Yuan Empire. Just how fearsome is your strength?”

Outside the city, wind brushed snow like a white fox’s tail.

“Hey! I’m the senior who’ll lead you for the next stretch.” Winona waved, bright-eyed, blinking like a quick sparrow at the three.

Vivian looked apologetic, a willow in rain. “Sorry. My sister’s just like this—kind of nuts. Please understand.”

“Wow, are you really my sister?” Winona planted hands on hips, sparks popping like dry twigs.

Edlyn raised a hand, helpless as a sigh. “Anyway, tell us what we’re doing.”

Angela nodded, firm as a pebble; Xiri glanced at her and nodded too, like a matched echo.

“Right. First, gear up.” Winona shot a look at Vivian; Vivian gave a nod, and Winona scratched her head, a cat smoothing fur.

In the distance, Eli had changed into a white mage’s robe, a drift of snow turned human.

He pulled up his hood; the white cloth hid him in the ice and wind, a ghost among pale dunes.

He drew his gaze away from Edlyn. Relief settled first, warm as a small lamp. “Looks like there’s no need to worry.”

There was a thing he needed to take back from that bear, a debt buried like a bone.

“Well, Edlyn was kind of right,” Eli said, shaking his head with a laugh, the sound light as frost bells.

His strength had hit a bottleneck; Battle Aura and magic stood at a human peak, pressing the glass of our limit.

But the feeling came first, deep and insistent, like thunder behind the hills: he wasn’t meant to stop at “human.”

How to climb higher? He couldn’t lean only on the Hero’s memories, a rope that didn’t move the mountain.

Those memories were, at best, a fine teacher, a clear spring; they wouldn’t pour power straight into his veins.

And something in him balked at leaning too hard on that spring, a reed resisting the current.

He needed a chance to step beyond, to cross the mortal river and touch the other bank.

He didn’t know why the urge to grow stronger ran so hot—only that he should, to guard the future’s storms.

At the end of it, Eli was Eli, and the Hero Birand was Birand; finding Birand’s memories was training, a visit to a teacher who knew every path through fog.

Lost in the drift of thoughts, he had already reached the giant bear’s cave, a dark mouth breathing cold.

He drew a long breath, quiet as winter pine. This beast might be his sparring partner for a while.