Dragon's Fire Consort
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 11
The Emperor’s private audience chamber was smaller than the throne room but somehow more intimidating. Intimate. No crowds of officials, no ceremony to hide behind. Just Zhang Mei, Emperor Qin Shi Huang, and the weight of history.
Liang had been explicitly excluded. “The Emperor wishes to speak with Captain Zhang alone,” the chamberlain had said. Not a request.
Zhang Mei knelt in the prescribed position, forehead to the floor, waiting.
“Rise.”
She stood, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered.
Emperor Qin Shi Huang sat not on a throne but on a simple chair, dressed in dark silk rather than imperial regalia. He looked older up close—lines of exhaustion etched deep, the weight of empire visible in every movement.
“Captain Zhang. You’ve proven yourself valuable. Two campaigns, two victories, minimal casualties. Tactics that have revolutionized Qin warfare.” He paused. “My son credits you with saving his command. Multiple times.”
“Prince Liang is an excellent commander, Your Majesty. I merely provided tactical suggestions.”
“Don’t be modest. It insults both our intelligence.” He stood, walked to a window overlooking the palace grounds. “You appear from nowhere. No family history we can verify. No background that makes sense. Knowledge that shouldn’t exist. And yet, you serve loyally. Effectively.”
Zhang Mei’s pulse quickened. This was the interrogation she’d been dreading.
“I’ve traveled extensively, Your Majesty. Learned from many sources—”
“Stop.” He turned to face her. “I didn’t summon you for lies. I summoned you for truth.”
Her throat went dry.
“I don’t know where you’re really from,” the Emperor continued. “I don’t know how you came to be in my palace. But I know you’re not what you claim. No southern barbarian tribe produces female military strategists with knowledge this advanced.”
She said nothing. What could she say?
“I could have you investigated. Tortured for the truth. Executed as a foreign spy.” He said it matter-of-factly. “But that would be wasteful. You’re useful. More—you’ve made my second son useful. Kept him alive when others would prefer him dead.”
The implication was clear. He knew about Zhao’s sabotage. Knew and hadn’t stopped it.
“My sons,” the Emperor said quietly, “represent a dilemma. Zhao is the heir. Legitimate, politically astute, knows how to maintain power. He will be a competent emperor. Ruthless, but competent.”
He walked back to his chair, sat down heavily. “Liang is the general. Brilliant tactician, respected by soldiers, wins impossible battles. He will never be emperor, but he makes the empire stronger. Keeps it safe.”
Zhang Mei understood. Zhao maintained political stability. Liang maintained military security. The Emperor needed both.
“As long as they both serve the dynasty, I tolerate their ... conflict.” The Emperor’s eyes were hard. “But if that conflict threatens the empire’s stability, I will resolve it. Permanently.”
A warning. Don’t let their rivalry become civil war.
“I serve the dynasty, Your Majesty,” Zhang Mei said carefully. “Whatever that requires.”
“Do you?” He leaned forward. “Or do you serve my son? There’s a difference.”
She thought about the brooch in her pocket. About the choice she’d made to stay. About partnership and trust and something deeper than tactics.
“I serve Prince Liang,” she said honestly. “But his goals align with the dynasty’s security. Keeping the borders safe. Training effective soldiers. Winning battles with minimal casualties.”
“And when those goals conflict?”
“They won’t.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
He studied her for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiled—not warmth, but something like approval.
“You’re loyal. I value that, even when it’s not to me directly.” He gestured dismissal. “I’m implementing your tactics empire-wide. You’ll train senior commanders, document your methods, ensure the knowledge spreads. This pleases me. Continue to be useful.”
It was permission. Endorsement. Protection, of a sort.
Also surveillance. She’d be watched, monitored, evaluated constantly.
“One more thing,” the Emperor said as she moved toward the door. “Whatever you really are, wherever you really came from—it doesn’t matter. As long as you serve. The moment you become a threat to stability, you’ll disappear. Understood?”
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Now go. My son is likely wearing a hole in the courtyard stones, waiting to hear you survived this meeting.”
Liang was indeed pacing in the courtyard. He stopped when he saw her, relief evident.
“Well?”
“He knows I’m hiding something. Doesn’t care as long as I’m useful.”
“That’s ... good?”
“That’s survival.” She kept walking, needing movement, needing to process. “He also made it clear that if your conflict with Zhao threatens the empire, he’ll eliminate whoever he needs to.”
“Including me.”
“Including both of us.”
They walked in silence through the palace gardens. Evening was falling, lanterns being lit along the paths. It should have been peaceful.
Instead, it felt like a countdown.
“Zhao will move soon,” Liang said quietly. “The poisoning failed. The sabotage failed. He’ll try something else. Something we can’t predict or counter.”
“Let him try. We’re ready.”
“Are we?” He stopped walking, turned to face her. “Mei, he has resources we can’t match. Father’s implicit permission to eliminate rivals. Court officials in his pocket. Unlimited funding. What do we have?”
“Each other. Loyal soldiers. Proven tactics.” She met his eyes. “And the knowledge that we’re right. The dynasty needs capable generals more than it needs court politics.”
“The dynasty needs both.”
“Then we make sure we stay valuable. Keep winning battles. Keep proving ourselves indispensable.”
“Until when? Until Zhao gives up? He won’t. Until Father dies and Zhao becomes emperor?” Liang’s voice was bitter. “Then I’m dead within a year. And you with me.”
The reality of it settled over them like a shroud. This wasn’t a problem they could solve with tactics. Eventually, Zhao would inherit absolute power. And he would use it.
“Then we have until then,” Zhang Mei said. “We make the most of it. We do the work. We save lives. We matter.”
“Is that enough?”
She thought about the brooch. About the option to leave, to go home, to escape all of this.
“It has to be.”
The victory celebration that night was elaborate. The entire palace attended—officials, officers, nobility, all dressed in their finest. Zhang Mei wore crimson and gold silk that Xiu had fussed over for hours, her hair pinned with jade combs, her face painted in court fashion.
She felt like a doll. A very expensive, very uncomfortable doll.
Liang found her on a balcony, escaping the noise and heat of the celebration. He looked equally uncomfortable in formal robes.
“Hiding?” he asked.
“Strategically withdrawing.”
He smiled. “Same thing.”
They stood in comfortable silence, watching lanterns float across the palace gardens below. Music and laughter drifted from the celebration.
“I spoke with General Zhao earlier,” Liang said. “He’s been offered a permanent promotion. Command of the northern garrison. Direct authority over five thousand troops.”
“That’s good. He earned it.”
“He also asked about you. Specifically, whether you’d consider training more officers directly. Apparently, the soldiers trust you more than they trust most of the traditional commanders.”
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