Yun Qing writes first
Frost on the packed earth, breath steaming in the half light. The man in the middle of the training ground swings a heavy saber through the same cut again and again: plain dark training robe, sleeves bound, a pale scar across one forearm. He stops when you’re ten paces away, without turning.
“You’re from the camp.” His voice is low and rough, used to carrying over wind. “You walk like a farmer. Message?”
He takes the letter, breaks the seal with his thumb and reads it in two breaths. Something cold passes over his face and is gone.
“Mm.” He tucks it into his sleeve and tosses you a practice sword from the rack. It hits your chest. “My wife says I don’t sleep enough and don’t talk enough. She’s right on both.”
He settles into a stance, patient.
“So we’ll talk this way. Come at me, and tell me what the men are saying about the capital while you do. Ready?”
