Page 37 of The Nightblood Prince

Be it rain or snow, or rare days of blissful sunshine, the camp woke at dawn to run laps before gathering in the courtyard for morning roll call and breakfast. Then we fetched water from the nearby stream, followed by either archery lessons, combat lessons, or practice drills and battle formations.

I excelled at absolutely nothing. Not with my phoenix’s mark covered. Perhaps if I had Fate’s guidance to help me cheat my way through these lessons, I would have been promoted in no time. At least that was what I liked to believe.

As much as I wanted to exceed and enjoy the satisfaction of showing off my Fate-aided archery skills, I couldn’t risk Caikun seeing my phoenix’s mark.

It was better to keep my head low and be a soldier unremarkable as unremarkable came.

The more forgettable I was, the less likely it was that my identity would be exposed.

In the evenings, if we were still on our feet and breathing, Caikun did something no other commander did.

He took us to the mountains and identified plants for us, taught us survival skills for both icy winters and scalding summers.

It wasn’t uncommon for soldiers to go missing during battles.

Some by pure accident, and some not so much.

Though most of us had enlisted willingly, many had not.

And some were like me, here out of choice but only to protect someone we loved.

Caikun claimed the survival lessons were in case any of us got stranded in the wild or the army ran out of supplies.

But some days, it felt as if by showing us how to survive in the wilderness, Caikun was giving us a chance to run, if we wanted to.

He kept us on our toes with his infinite list of military rules, under which the smallest of mistakes warranted laps around camp—or worse, fetching water from the mountaintop wells.

My peers complained that we had the worst luck, as no other commander was this strict.

Caikun operated less like a commander training farm boys and more like a general preparing for battle.

An unsettling thought lumped in my throat each time it surfaced. At nights, I often looked around the barracks and wondered how many of these young men would see their families again.

Weeks passed in the blink of an eye.

The sun had set, and the camp gathered around fires as we waited for our food. Some were trading stories, and others were playing card games to make the monotonous days feel bearable.

A crumpled piece of paper entered my vision. “Can you help me write a letter to my daughter?” asked a tall man with large, callused hands and a menacing face. “I promised her that I—”

“Of course.” I stood up to grab my ink brush and inkstone from the tent, where our comrades were lying about, reminiscing about home and laughing about childhood memories. The air after arduous days always felt easy, languishing, and short-lived.

Most of these men came from the countryside, forgotten by the capital unless it was harvest season, born and raised for the rice fields that fed the empire. These men knew many things—things that kept the empire alive—but words and calligraphy were not things their villages prioritized.

“What would you like to tell her?” I asked when I sat down at the table where Luyao and his friends were playing cards. Everyone shuffled to make room for me. This was not the first time I had helped someone send letters home.

“That I am happy, and she should behave and take care of her little brother and grandparents. She shouldn’t worry. The food is good here, and so are the people.” The men around the table cheered at this. “I will come home as soon as I can.”

It was always the same sentiments of happiness and reassurance. 报喜不报忧 , only share the happy details, not grim ones.

Though our camp whispered Caikun’s name in bitter tones, I hoped eventually they would realize that Caikun only wanted what was best for us. He wanted us to go home to our loved ones.

I hoped he would be successful, that more of these men got to see their families again than those who wouldn’t.

When I was done with the letter, I handed it to the stranger, and he thanked me with a smile.

From across the table, Luyao watched me, eyeing the brush and inkstone. He wanted me to write more letters home for him but knew my inkstone was running low. Once it was gone, the letter-writing would end, for I had no idea how to get a replacement.

Perhaps I could ask Caikun to show mercy, or steal one from the barracks where the high-ranking officers lived? Couriers came and went every day with letters and information from the front lines. With Fate’s help, it would be easy to slip one into my sleeves without anyone noticing.

“When is the baby due?” I asked him. “I still have ink; I can help you write letters to Zhangxi.”

Luyao smiled and shook his head, though I knew nothing would please him more. “It’s not just your inkstone, Little Li. Think of the couriers who have to deliver these letters in these times.”

He was right. It couldn’t be easy or safe to travel thousands of miles to deliver letters with a war going on. “There are so many aspects of life that we take for granted in times of prosperity.”

“You sound like a capital rat,” A’du said, and it was not a compliment. “Times of prosperity are just lies told to us peasants to keep us from rebelling. I alone have seen three different flags fly over my borderland town. My father has seen seven.”

“Who is the best ruler?” I asked in jest, and A’du grimaced.

“Good emperor, bad emperor, all tyrants are the same. There is no good ruler, only those who are more benevolent than others.”

I thought of my prophecy. If it ever came true, would the gods finally bring peace to the continent? Or would I become just another bad ruler that my citizens saw as the least of all evils?

I sat at the edge of the table while everyone else traded stories. Everything from village gossip to the monstrous rumors uttered of Lan’s demons.

Luyao always spoke of Zhangxi. Every night, he stared up at the sky and whispered loving words, in hopes that the moon and the stars would relay his love to her and their unborn child.

Another boy—younger than I was, barely fifteen—spoke of his family every night.

Of his elderly father, his blind mother, and his little sister, whose smile was vibrant and sweet as the peaches they gathered from summer forests.

He hadn’t enlisted by choice. Forced here by the richest merchant of the village to replace his silver-spooned son in order to pay off his father’s debts.

Others had similar stories, having been paid by wealthier men to enlist in place of their sons in order to keep their siblings fed or buy their parents medicine.

With them, I cried.

With them, I laughed.

However, the conversations always ambled from reminiscent memories to fears of the inevitable. The same fables of war, which sounded more like ghost stories to scare misbehaving kids.

Lan Yexue’s soldiers walked into a downpour of arrows and came out alive.

They say his men move fast like lightning and are stronger than bulls.

Those are not men. They are demons, with glowing red eyes. My uncle saw them! They have fangs in place of teeth!

None of this is true! someone would proclaim every night. These are just haunted men repainting their worst memories with demons that don’t exist!

I wasn’t so sure. If Lan Yexue could move like lightning and fling grown men around as if they were rag dolls, who was to say his soldiers could not do the same?

The way Yexue meticulously pushed Rong’s army back with languorous slowness felt personal. Like a predator toying with his prey, or a strategist, waiting.

Was this really revenge for the degradation he’d suffered at Rong’s court? Or was Lan Yexue planning something more?

Memories fluttered: my dagger in his chest; his eyes that bled with pain as he watched me ride away with Siwang.

How I wished I had gone for his heart when I had the chance.

Day by day, night by night, these strange faces slowly became familiar.

Men whose laughter I began to recognize, whose families I felt as if I had already met. Men whose quiet sobs lulled everyone to sleep in the dark. The ones who laughed the hardest also cried the loudest.

Every night, after the fires whimpered into smoke and exhaustion forced my eyes to close, I watched these newfound friends die in my never-ending nightmares.

Lan Yexue’s haunting, bloodstained smile against falling snow.

You can run, but you can’t hide, my goddess.