The landscape of the central southwest passed in rolling fields beyond the train window, a softer image than the earlier metropolitan clusters of the journey. Xi Mona of House Guan, returning home after eight years of academia in the southern capital, felt her modern-life anxiety melt away like the fibersteel and holotech imagery. It was only a temporary peace—Mona had no illusions about why Anjie had called them home at this time—but still, she could feel her pulse in her throat at the anticipation of being home.

The last time she had seen the beautiful valley was when Yulai had invaded with their army. Back then, Mona stayed only long enough to fight, cry, and bury the family and friends she had not seen in years. Since Mona had turned twenty-six, she had been living outside, researching cybernetics in a metropolitan university, eating processed nutrients and wearing synthetic fashion, tracking the mundane advancements of the ever-changing external world. Her duty was simple—to be an extension of the guardian house that kept up with the modern outside, so that Guilin’s traditions did not leave them vulnerable to blindsiding. Some days her life was pleasant. Some days it simply was. Most days, Guilin felt like a distant dream stirred away by the routine of her instant morning coffee.

When she received the message on her comm tablet, it had felt like waking up. Now the dream was Yincheng, that sprawling port city where her apartment and cat and talking coffee machine waited. It was a mistake, really; she should have given the cat away. There was no saying when she would be returning to that life again.

In the history of Guilin, the House only called their outside cranes home for three reasons: the death of the First Lord, the naming of a new one, and the imminence of war. Anjie had given the order, which meant this was about the last of the three. The threat, no doubt, came from Anzhou.

Mona had moved to the Anzhou capital of Yincheng shortly after the ruling Hua family had been overthrown by Quan Caihe and her supporters. She had seen Quan Caihe at city celebrations, a charming and extraordinary woman by the look of her eyes and the poise of her posture alone. The propaganda spun a tale of a heroic return from the ashes, for the Quan family had once ruled Anzhou—and over a century ago, ruled the whole continent. Mona had thought that winning this war of unification would satisfy the empress-regent, but it seemed that the House had different premonitions.

If they were right, it would not be the first time the Quans attempted to take Guilin. Back in 365, after the First Warring States Period of the Ashless Era, the rising Quans had attempted to claim the autonomous traditional valley—and met the ghost-like cranes that inhabited the land. That was the birth of the legend: House Guan formed in the aftermath of that horrific battle, and the valley was renamed Guilin—the Ghost Forest—by the external states. Few invasions had occurred since, but each time, House Guan had stood victorious.

Mona hoped they would not have to add a fifth marker for the histories. Their enemy felt different this time. And their house, for better or for worse, was far weaker than the titanium-hearted Guan of old.

Early afternoon, the train docked at the nearest station to Guilin. From there Mona hitched a half-hour ride to the small town of Duling, and from there, she arranged a trip with a merchant heading south into Guilin scheduled for the next day. The merchant was jovial about it, declaring he had made much bank the last week from the returning guardians. Mona, he said, was the ninth. Which meant that she was among the last, if not the last. Having had some matters to wrap up in the city, she’d delayed her return by about a week since receiving the message.

The next morning, the Duling merchant took her south on a large truck of produce and wares. It was a four hour drive to the valley region, crossing uninhabited fields and barren flatlands. The appearance of rich vivid greens marked their approach.

He dropped her off on the outskirts of Beicheng, northmost town of the little valley province. The Council guards on duty checked him in for his business and allowed Mona to pass after seeing her emblemed sword. That thing had drawn quite a bit of attention on her trip, had been hidden away in her apartment for years. Walking down the Beicheng roads with her hand on the hilt, she could almost feel the metal sing in homecoming.

It was a four hour hike from Beicheng to the Guan estate. Having missed the Guilin landscape viscerally and not knowing when she would next have this luxury, Mona walked. Time rewound by centuries, immersed in a land so hauntingly beautiful in its unexploited vulnerability. Too soon, and years late, she arrived at the road leading to the Rizhai township, which homed Guilinhe village and the Guan estate on its southern outskirts.

On this road she stopped. It was a wide dirt path, the soil marked by wheels and steps, simple and gracious. The standalone archway to Rizhai stood proudly down the road, a wood and stone construct that was older than their era, reinforced through the centuries. Past it was the first village, the lush trees, the valley mountains in the background. The welcome of home.

Breathing deeply, Mona walked on.

By the time she reached the estate, it was mid-afternoon. The first to greet her were the children, finished with school and playing ball in the yard. So much bigger than she remembered them—nearly unfamiliar. The oldest boy was the only one who recognized her, his eyes glittering as he dropped the ball.

“Auntie Mona!”

She smiled at the boy. “Look at you. I can barely recognize you. And the rest of you too! Is that Ruotian?”

A prim girl weaving under the tree stood up and bowed her head. “It’s me, Auntie Mona.”

“And you’ve picked up manners too!”

The girl blushed. Mona laughed. In her peripheral, a small figure dropped out of the plum tree—a young girl with wild hair cropped at her jaw and a vivid fruit in her mouth, purple juice dripping down the corners. She took the fruit out of her mouth and said, “You’re really late.”

“And who’s this little wildling?” said Mona, having a guess.

The girl grinned. “I’m Lenglei.”

“Hey!” said a boy, appearing offended.

The girl giggled.

“She’s Wenbo,” said Ruotian.

Mona’s smile softened, watching the child tease the boy named Lenglei. Last Mona had seen the girl, she was a year old and without parents. Today her little spirit was practically brimming with light.

“You want a plum?” said Wenbo, fishing one out of her pocket and looking at Mona.

Mona stretched out a hand. Wenbo tossed the plum. “Thanks.”

“You gotta hide it though. Jin-Ge says I’m supposed to leave the tree alone.”

Mona laughed. “Alright, kid. I’ll hide it.” She pocketed the plum and lifted a hand to wave at the children. “You kids have fun with your ball game. Save me a spot next time, okay?”

“Where are you going?” said Wenbo.

Mona peeked over her shoulder. “To check in with your big brother.”

Wenbo made a face.

“You’re really late,” she said, echoing her words from earlier. “He left Guilin this morning.”

---

The letter arrived at dinnertime, delivered to Ziyuan by a northtown guard who said an imperial courier had come in person. The envelope, a thick and refined parchment, carried the old, outdated emblem of the once-imperial Quan. Addressed to the First Lord of House Guan, it went sealed to Anjie’s hands.

The dining room was quiet while Anjie read the contents. Ziyuan, the three younger Guan siblings, and their aunt Baisun waited, only the ten year old Wenbo shifting in unsettled confusion. A soft hiccup from the child interrupted the silence.

Ziyuan had been watching Anjie, whose characteristic calm belied a resigned grimness. At Wenbo’s hiccup, Anjie glanced at her. To all but Ziyuan, that fade of his features to a warm resolve would have been imperceptible. Anjie’s gaze lingered on his sister for a moment. When the moment was gone, he handed the paper from the envelope to Ziyuan, who scanned it while Anjie spoke.

“The Quan Empress is holding an inaugural dinner for her new empire,” he said. “She invites me to attend.”

...and to discuss the future between our two sovereignties, the letter read.

“What? She can’t actually expect you to go,” said Wenzhan.

Ziyuan folded the paper and tucked it back inside the envelope. In their peripheral, Jinyue’s sharp gaze followed their movement.

“When is it?” said Jinyue.

“In three days,” said Anjie.

A pause.

“Ignore it,” said Wenzhan.

“He’s right,” said Jinyue. “When has House Guan ever involved ourselves with outside affairs? Quan Caihe knows this. It’s not just an invitation to dinner, An-Ge. It has to be political.”

Anjie didn’t respond immediately. At the opposing head of the table, the mute aunt Baisun resumed eating, the porcelain clicks of her chopsticks accentuating the silence.

“Ah-Yue,” said Anjie eventually, “I’ll leave the household affairs to you for a time.”

Wenzhan slapped the table and bolted upright. “You can’t go. At worst, it’s a trap—”

“And Guilin needs you here,” said Jinyue, nearly matching Wenzhan’s rebellious tone. “The First Guardian has never left the valley. If anything happens while you’re not here—if anything happens to you out there—”

Anjie frowned and opened his mouth. His brothers fell silent, but the words visibly boiled at their lips.

“It is not a trap,” he said. “Only a first move.”

“Don’t play her game,” said Jinyue.

Wenbo tugged at Ziyuan’s sleeve. Whispered, “What game?” Ziyuan smiled for the little girl and pressed a finger to their lips, indicating quiet.

“She can start the game,” said Anjie, “but that does not make it hers.”

“Still—”

“That’s enough, Ah-Yue. The dinner table is not a place for arguments. We can talk about this later.”

Later, Ziyuan gave the brothers their private space. In the adjacent tearoom, Ziyuan sat beneath the archway to the garden, their back to the solar room lights. While the strained, inaudible words underlaid the background, Ziyuan pulled the letter out of their shirt and unfolded it. Ziyuan traced the fine lettering, handwritten with rich ink.

Quan Caihe. Her name had drifted into this household well before she had acquired the regency of Anzhou, from the lips of a man who saw too much and showed too little. But Ziyuan could not deny that they had admired the traitorous Jun Musheng—feared him, even. From the very beginning, Ziyuan had felt the dangerous viper beneath the soft charm, the demeanor of someone who was not afraid of anything, who elevated himself above everything. And even such a man had spoken about Quan Caihe with an apprehensive respect.

Guilin won’t last forever, he had said. Nothing does.

Ziyuan crumpled the letter in their hand and tightened their jaw. It was true that nothing in this world lasted forever. But so long as the Guan siblings called this home, Anjie would never let harm come to Guilin. And so long as Ziyuan lived, they would never let Anjie shoulder that conviction alone.

At last the conversation of the brothers came to an end. The door opened and Jinyue and Wenzhan walked out, neither looking happy, but neither looking quite as fiery as they had been at the dinner table. They bade Ziyuan a good night and left.

Anjie appeared next, pulling a ribbon out of his hair. The half-tie he had been wearing loosened, spilling over his shoulders. He scratched the back of his head, looking relieved as he sat down beside Ziyuan.

“How did you talk them down?” said Ziyuan.

“Well,” said Anjie, smiling, “I am their older brother, no? I remember that you once tried to sell the lotus fairy to Lanlun and she avoided the ponds for years.”

Ziyuan laughed. “Fair. Should it worry me that you compare persuading your brothers to selling a fairytale?”

“It’s nothing so ridiculous.”

Ziyuan nodded, their laugh-spread grin fading to a half-smile. “Just a little bit, then?”

Anjie leaned back on his arms and hummed, gazing at the night garden. A soft affirmative.

Of course, the coming risk was not so light that the younger Guan brothers would be tame if they understood the scope. In the past, no First Lord would have considered responding to this invitation—at best it was not necessary, and at worst it was a sign of weakness to compromise their long-standing indifference on external affairs. Quan Caihe might not even be expecting Anjie to attend. But circumstances had changed since the Yulai invasion had cost them so many copper-eyed cranes. In particular, circumstances had changed since Anjie had ended the practice of their third tier modifications.

The legends of the cranes were only legends because of their science. Inherited from old nobility, the techniques of their engineering exceeded the current modern capabilities by centuries. The warriors of House Guan underwent the first tier at birth, and most survived with a fine-tuned nervous system, a forceful immune system, and enhanced regeneration. They underwent the second tier at adolescence—or if they had not been born with House Guan, like the Su family, they underwent a variant of these two tiers upon joining the household. Warriors like Wenzhan and Jinyue were endowed with daunting endurance and strength, lethal reaction time. But the third tier could only be performed on a fully matured body, which was then systematically recreated from the marrow to the flesh. A three month, torturous process that many did not survive.

Ziyuan remembered vividly when Anjie had undergone the remaking. He went under first, three months before they began on his sister Liyun, because only one operation could be performed at a time. Liyun had insisted that Anjie go first because she hadn’t wanted her brother to endure the wracking fear and uncertainty in that wait period. Anjie took another month to recover, and in that time, Liyun passed under the operation knife.

Liyun was not the last person he’d loved to die to their merciless duty. And for better or for worse, Anjie was not going to let the same thing happen to his little brothers and sister. But the difference between a crane with copper eyes and a crane with human eyes was simply incomparable, and their coppers were barely a quarter of the historical minimum. If Quan Caihe struck now, bottling Guilin’s entry points with her full army, there would no doubt be a rupture somewhere that not even Anjie could dam.

Anjie was trying to avoid an outright war, or at least preempt it. But Ziyuan could not say what waited in the new empire capital, or what came after.

As if hearing Ziyuan’s thoughts, Anjie said, “Quan Caihe will not touch Guilin without a declaration and at least the illusion of a cause. Or at least this is what I believe. Her rise to power has been defined by this image of righteousness, and Guilin has been an autonomous legend for too long. So she will need a story for the public if she is to try to claim our land.”

“It’s easy to spin tales,” said Ziyuan.

“Yes,” said Anjie, “and easier if we appear at this celebration with words and actions for her to distort.”

“Then why are you going?”

“Because I believe she will find a way to spin that tale regardless. And this may be our best chance to persuade her otherwise.”

Ziyuan blinked. “Persuade? You don’t mean negotiate?”

“That depends.” Anjie paused. His fingers drifted to the ends of his hair, perhaps unconsciously toying with the locks. “Somebody once told me that men prefer to be governed rather than killed. That it’s only pride that drives us to leave our children orphaned, when the wiser course is often to buy peace.”

“You’re not thinking of letting her imperialize Guilin?”

A silence, heavy.

Anjie moved his hand away from his hair and smoothed the folds of his robes.

“No,” he said. “I could not betray our centuries of sacrifice like that.”

Ziyuan narrowed their eyes. Despite the straight arch of Anjie’s back, the final resolve in his tone, he had perhaps truly considered it for a moment.

“You’re worried about Jinyue and Wenzhan,” said Ziyuan.

Anjie looked at the black grass.

Of course he would be worried. Jinyue and Wenzhan had been too young to participate in the fight against Yulai. But a war now meant they were expected to be at the front lines, and not even Anjie could protect them from that duty if he was to lead this house.

“I will do what needs to be done to protect the integrity of the valley, and my family. For now, it means making an appearance.” He paused. “Quan Caihe is driven by ambition. But maybe she can be reasoned with.”

“You’re optimistic,” said Ziyuan, shaking their head.

“I have to be.” Anjie looked at Ziyuan. “Come with me?”

Ziyuan sighed. They put a hand over Anjie’s, gripping it tight for a moment.

“I’m with you anywhere. So don’t get me killed, Anjie.”

---

The day after next, Anjie fastened the synthetic buttons of a light collared shirt in a public bathroom, watching his new appearance in the wall mirror. They had left Guilin before dawn to avoid startling the province people, and seven hours later in the train station town, they had purchased appropriate modern attire for the trip. Prim black trousers, thin bodied shirt, light suit jacket. Simple belt, no holster. Their swords stayed home, too obtrusive and probably unnecessary. Quan Caihe was a proud new empress, after all—Anjie doubted she would do anything overtly hostile while they were in her capital on her invitation.

When he was done with his shirt, Anjie braided his hair and tucked it in a tight knot. A foreign man stared back from the mirror afterward, something from an odd dream. Behind Anjie, another man entering the bathroom glanced at this foreign reflection, glanced away, and did a double take. Anjie looked away from the mirror, hiding his strange copper eyes. He collected his robes and went to find Ziyuan.

A challenge at first. Ziyuan was at the boarding platform, facing away from the bathrooms. Anjie picked them out by their neat, chin-length hair and their suitcase. Ziyuan seemed to sense his approach and turned as Anjie reached.

“Oh,” they said, glancing over Anjie. “That’s very odd.”

Anjie smiled. “Likewise.”

Ziyuan stood up and peered more intently at Anjie, a frown drawing their brow. After a moment, Ziyuan hummed. They reached over and undid the top button of Anjie’s shirt.

“It looked stuffy,” said Ziyuan.

Now Anjie frowned.

Ziyuan cocked their head leftward. “The man over there wears it like this. It looks better.”

“Are we on a fashion tour now?”

Ziyuan chuckled. “Someone with a face and air like yours will stand out for the wrong reasons if he’s not fashionable. I’m sure we’re already quite lacking in that department, so let’s do what we can.”

Anjie hesitated.

“Thank you, Ziyuan,” he said, not about the button.

Ziyuan only smiled knowingly.

They boarded the train a half-hour later. It was an hour’s ride to the nearest metropolis, where they ate a meal and then switched to the advanced interregional bulletrail. The heavy holographic lights and masses of distinct people were nearly suffocating. But not so much because of the hectic, unfamiliar clutter.

In Anjie’s thirty three years, he had only left Guilin three times, and twice had been with Musheng. Once, the last time, they came all the way to this same metropolitan city. It would be a lie to say he did not remember that time like a ghost wound now.

Foolish. It’s been a decade.

Still, he closed his eyes when they were secured in their private rail compartment. Moments later, he was asleep, restlessly.

Late night, they arrived in the sprawling port city of Yincheng, capital of Anzhou. At this hour, Guilin would be silent and lightless but for the moon and the street lamps. By contrast, Yincheng appeared to be as awake as anything could be in daytime. Hardly a star was visible in the sky from the pollution of night lights, a vivid array of colors glittering off the glass and metal of towers. People undulated the landscape in fashion just as bright and varied, the dangle of a microchip earring here, the headband of a traditional weave there. Below the bridge overlooking a wide river hung familiar paper lanterns; below those, a row boat carried two apparent tourists with flashing midnight cameras.

Anjie had seen images apart from his three trips beyond Guilin, but this immersion, ten years later, was still overwhelming. More went on in a single street of Yincheng than in an entire town of Guilin. Somehow, Anjie and Ziyuan made it through the onslaught. They checked in at a hotel for the night on the twelfth floor. Ziyuan had never been so high off the ground before, particularly in a place like this, and peered out the window in excitement. When they waved Anjie over, Anjie only shook his head and went to shower.

The next day, September 24th, was the evening of the imperial celebration. Anjie and Ziyuan spent the day wandering the city, which was abuzz with chatter about the dining event and the attending nobility. The waiter who served their lunch gushed about the peace coming to the continent at last—the Second Era!—and proclaimed that the empress to be celebrated tonight was an appointee of the heavens. This waiter seemed to have forgotten that most of the turmoil in the last half-century, at least for Anzhou, had been caused by Quan Caihe’s relentless rise to power.

“It’s fate,” said another woman that Ziyuan had struck up a conversation with. “You only need to take one look at her to know it.”

So, half past five, they made preparations to head over to the palace. Leaving the hotel entrance, a modestly-dressed woman approached them and bowed her head.

“Lord Guan, I presume?”

A slick cold ran down Anjie’s spine. He lifted an eyebrow calmly. “And you?”

The woman lowered her head further. “Only an escort of the imperial court, my lord.”

“How did you find us?”

The woman looked up and smiled. “We are not as legendary as Guilin, but Yincheng has its own cleverness. Come this way, my lords. I will take you to the palace.”

She led them to a modern black vehicle, which sped through the city with the soft background music of traditional zithers. Perhaps a deliberate choice. Anjie recognized the second piece, and the third. By the fourth, they pulled into the drive of a lush, gardened estate. No security guards—merely the occasional gate or automated monitor post, blinking as their vehicle passed. Aside from this, the modernized clutter of the city fell away to natural greens and a quiet peace, a sprawling pond. It was another five minutes before a traditional palace appeared in the distance.

According to the cranes who lived beyond Guilin, this kind of thing was common. Royalty and nobility secluded their homes—or at least one of them—in the mimic of classical history. The modern luxuries of the city was but a quick drive away, after all, but beauty like the willow trees and speckled pond ducks must be sought or built. So it came as no surprise that the Yincheng palace reminded Anjie of the Guan estate, but several times more grandiose. Instead of cranes, this place was protected by giant stone lion guardians.

Their vehicle was not the only one entering the walled palace courtyard. Ahead, a car stopped before wide stone steps to drop off its passengers—three garbed men and women, and a fourth driver. These four ascended the steps to the tall, red entry gates of the main building. The uniformed driver spoke with the gate guard. When their own vehicle parked and Anjie stepped out, that gate guard struck the ground with a heavy staff.

“Announcing the Lord and Ladies Jing, provincial regents of Dongchuan!”

The three lords and ladies Jing entered beneath the towering archway. Through this archway drifted a stir of polite chatter, sweet aromas, and the poised accent of live classical music.

“This way, my lords,” said their escort-driver.

In Anjie’s peripheral, Ziyuan made a peeved face at the address. Anjie smiled at them, then smoothed the sleeves of his new suit. He followed their escort up the steps, surveying the building interior as the escort spoke to the guard. What appeared to be a massive gathering hall had been filled with gold-clothed tables for the meal, and nearly all of these tables were already seated. Light dining had begun, waiters ferrying carts of appetizers for the attendees.

The invitation had said six o’clock. Anjie had opted to skip the social mingling, and it was twenty minutes past the hour. A choice with a cost: now, a full audience was present to hear the staff strike the ground.

“Announcing the First Lord Guan, of the Guardian House of Guilin!”

Ziyuan, unmentioned, made a noise in their throat. “That is almost as terrible as being misgendered.”

A comment to fill the sudden silence. The hush of what must have been at least a thousand people was heavy—a thousand witnesses to the moment Anjie shattered House Guan’s untouchable aura of lofty indifference. He thought of Wenbo crawling upright from the training room floor, a fierce light in her eyes as she said, one day.

“Welcome, my lord.” A new escort bowed. “This way, please.”

They followed the escort to the front end of this hall. In the struck silence, it felt like a very long walk. An empty table waited near the elevated dais, ringed by four empty seats. One for Anjie, another for Ziyuan. Perhaps Quan Caihe truly intended for a talk over this public dinner.

Before they reached this table, a strange feeling swept Anjie’s skin. Like wind, but the room was windless. He turned in its direction.

There was another table by the front, seated by men and women bearing the Quan emblem. These men and women started at his glance—and yet none of them seemed peculiar to Anjie. His gaze hovered on a single empty chair, pushed out awkwardly. A half-empty wineglass laid before it, the red liquid still trembling.

Anjie looked around. There was only the rich imperial decor and the overbearing attention.

“What is it?” said Ziyuan.

Anjie shook his head. In his peripheral, the appetizer cart rolled toward their waiting seats. “Let’s have something to eat. I imagine the main course will be quite difficult to swallow.”