Chapter 6: Ashes and Oaths

Dawn broke slow and cold over a camp littered with broken carts, blood-streaked rocks, and the lingering smoke of the burned supply wagon.

Yet for all the ruin, there was no weeping now — only the quiet, determined sounds of the living tending to the wounded and burying the dead.

At the center of it all moved Yan Qingling.

She knelt beside an old guard whose arm had been slashed nearly to the bone. With calm hands, she packed a poultice made from Evergreen Pavilion herbs into the wound, her voice firm but gentle as she ordered the younger men to splint the arm with a carved branch.

"Change this wrap every sunrise. If it smells sour, boil more water and clean it again. Let the wound breathe in the sun each day, even if it hurts."

"Yes, Madam!" The young guard bowed low, eyes shining with new loyalty that no crown could ever buy.

From the edge of the clearing, Li Zeyan watched his so-called 'fragile bride' give commands more confidently than his best lieutenants once had on the battlefield.

Every order carried calm strength.

Every frightened child who clung to her robe rose braver than before.

Every sister-in-law she touched found her tears drying like dew under sunlight.

When she finally paused to catch her breath, Li Zeyan stepped close, his shadow falling across her and the half-crushed basket of herbs she cradled in her lap.

"You saved more tonight than I did with a spear," he said. His voice held no bitterness — only quiet wonder that made Qingling's chest tighten in ways she didn't have time to name.

"I am a soldier's daughter," she murmured, tying off a bundle of cleaned bandages. "I fight wars with medicine instead of blades. Same blood, same promise."

He knelt beside her, ignoring the pain in his ribs, and took the basket from her hands. For a moment their fingers brushed — rough and calloused against soft and work-worn — and the fleeting warmth steadied them both more than the rising sun did.

Behind them, Lady Meng called out:

"Sister Qingling! We've finished gathering what little grain the bandits didn't spill. There's barely enough for three days…"

Qingling rose, smoothing her tattered robe. Her eyes swept over the battered group: children clutching scraps of flatbread, men leaning on spears too dull for real defense, women huddling over the remaining carts piled with rags.

Yet no one was begging anymore. No one looked ready to fall apart.

She spoke clearly, her voice carrying across the clearing:

"Hear me, all of you. The Emperor calls us traitors. The wild says we are prey. But I say — we are neither."

Heads turned. Eyes lifted. Even the smallest child stilled to listen.

"We are survivors. We have hands, we have strong backs, we have seeds hidden in the dirt and food hidden in places no thief can find. These bandits thought we were helpless. Next time, let them choke on our thorns!"

A ripple of laughter — weak but real — broke through the tired crowd. Lady Meng's eyes glistened as she clapped her hands together:

"Long live our Consort! Long live the Li family!"

A faint echo rose among the old guards:

"Long live! Long live!"

Li Zeyan didn't join the chant. Instead, he stepped to Qingling's side and bent his head low enough that only she could hear:

"You steal their loyalty with truth, not fear. It suits you more than a crown ever would."

Qingling raised her brows, teasing despite the ache in her limbs.

"Will you kneel and swear fealty too, Your Highness?"

He caught her hand, rough thumb brushing over her wrist pulse, slow and reverent.

"I already did — when I married you."

For a heartbeat longer than reason allowed, the wasteland seemed to bloom around them: a ruined clan standing tall, a wounded prince bowing not to a throne but to the woman who'd given him back hope.

Two days after the bandit raid, the exile caravan limped deeper into the rugged foothills, away from the Emperor's reach but closer to the edge of raw wilderness.

The path wound between thorn-choked shrubs and dry riverbeds, where the only signs of life were the cawing of black crows and the scent of pine needles crushed under foot.

Yan Qingling walked beside the lead cart, eyes scanning the ridges for any flicker of movement. Her fingers drummed against her cloak pocket, feeling the warmth of a small medicine pouch tucked safely inside — a tiny piece of her Evergreen Pavilion's secrets, always ready.

Beside her, Li Zeyan rode slowly, favoring his mended ribs but alert as a hunting hawk. His voice broke the quiet:

"You've been watching the same slope for an hour. You sense trouble?"

Qingling tilted her chin at a faint deer path winding into a dark copse of ancient pines.

"Not trouble. A chance. This mountain once fed roaming hunters. Somewhere near that stream there must be an abandoned shelter, or animal traps still half-usable."

He raised a brow. "You plan to catch a meal with your bare hands, miracle doctor?"

She shot him a sideways smile. "Why not? My hands mend bones and grow crops — they can snare rabbits too."

He laughed — a low, surprised sound she'd heard more in these past days than any court rumor ever promised of the War God Prince.

At her signal, two old guards broke off from the column, following her into the pines. The shadows here were damp and fragrant with old moss. Qingling crouched often, studying broken twigs, a scratch of fur on a tree trunk, a faint footpath winding uphill beside the hidden stream.

An hour later, they found it: an old hunter's hut, half swallowed by creeping ivy and a leaning pine. The roof sagged but held, walls sturdy under a crust of lichen. A stone hearth squatted cold inside, choked with ash.

One guard exhaled in wonder. "Madam, if we fix this roof, it could shelter ten people easily. There's a spring behind the rock. Pure water!"

Qingling's eyes glowed with quiet triumph.

"Not ten. Fifty. We'll rebuild it into a proper safe house. Quiet. Hidden. Somewhere our children can sleep while the Emperor thinks we beg for scraps at the border."

She stepped inside the cold gloom, running her fingers along the cracked door frame, as if feeling the pulse of a patient ready to heal.

Li Zeyan ducked inside after her, filling the narrow doorway with his broad, battle-worn shape. He studied her profile in the dim light, voice softer than she'd ever heard:

"You build hope from ash and ruin, Consort Yan."

She didn't turn, but her lips curved faintly.

"Survival is not enough. We must have roots, walls, fire — or we'll be prey forever."

A faint rustle outside made both freeze. Qingling's hand flew to her hidden dagger — but Li Zeyan had already slipped behind the door like a shadow.

A heartbeat later, a scrawny boy stumbled through the brush, clutching a sack half-filled with dried mushrooms. His eyes widened when he saw Qingling — then wider still when Li Zeyan's hand clamped over his shoulder, spinning him around like a doll.

"Who sent you here, brat?" Li Zeyan growled, though not unkindly.

The boy trembled. "N-No one! Please don't kill me, sir — I'm hungry! I was… I followed you from the last village. The guards there told me if I watch your camp and tell them secrets, they'd give me rice…"

Qingling's eyes narrowed. So — another pair of spying ears. Even starving children could be bought by traitors sniffing out their hidden food stores.

She crouched low, meeting the boy's tear-filled gaze.

"What did you see?"

The boy sniffed, wiping his runny nose with a dirty sleeve.

"Only that the pretty lady hides food for the old ladies and sick children. And she has magic bags…"

Li Zeyan's fingers twitched on the boy's shoulder — but Qingling placed her hand over his wrist, steadying him.

She said calmly, "You're hungry, aren't you? Listen well. If you run back to those village guards and tell them anything, they'll beat you, take your mushrooms, and toss you away like a stray dog. But if you stay with us, help us rebuild this hut, guard our secret… you'll eat every day, and sleep under a real roof."

The boy's eyes shone — hope flickered where fear had lived moments before. He fell to his knees, bowing so hard his forehead hit the dirt.

"Madam, I swear! I won't tell anyone! Please let me stay!"

Li Zeyan looked down at her, half amused, half astonished.

"You tame spies like strays now?"

Qingling rose, brushing dirt from her skirts.

"I don't tame spies. I turn them into family."

Outside, the guards set about clearing fallen branches from the hut's yard. Inside, Qingling stood in the musty dark, already seeing new walls, a roaring hearth — and a hidden sanctuary where exiled blood could become a thorn strong enough to prick an Emperor's pride.