Dragon's Fire Consort
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 14
The traveling assignment was exactly what Zhao intended—isolation, exhaustion, and constant vulnerability.
Zhang Mei spent six months moving from garrison to garrison, training commanders, implementing tactics, documenting everything in painstaking detail. The work was important. Necessary. Every garrison she visited became more effective, more capable, better prepared to defend the empire.
It was also lonely as hell.
She wrote to Liang weekly. Tactical reports, training progress, observations about regional military readiness. Professional correspondence that carefully avoided anything personal.
His responses came irregularly—he was busy with court duties, new campaign planning, managing political pressures. Lady Chen often added notes about logistical coordination, supply chain improvements, administrative developments.
They were all very proper. Very professional.
Very inadequate.
The brooch stayed in Zhang Mei’s pocket. She touched it constantly now, feeling its warmth, its promise. One thought. One moment of decision. That’s all it would take.
She didn’t use it.
Not when the eighth garrison’s commander tried to undermine her training, claiming a woman couldn’t understand real warfare. She’d challenged him to single combat—put him on his ass in front of his entire unit—and continued her work.
Not when the eleventh garrison suffered a supply “accident” that destroyed half their training equipment. Zhao’s work, obviously. She’d improvised, adapted, completed the training anyway.
Not even when the twelfth garrison nearly killed her.
It happened at night, three weeks into her stay at a remote northern outpost. Zhang Mei woke to smoke, to heat, to the crackle of flames.
Her quarters were on fire.
She rolled out of bed, grabbed her knife—always within reach—and headed for the door. Locked from the outside. The window? Barred.
Trapped.
Deliberate. This wasn’t an accident.
Smoke was already thick, burning her lungs. Heat intensifying. Minutes, maybe, before the roof collapsed.
Zhang Mei forced herself to think through the panic. The window bars were iron, but the window frame was wood. Weakened by fire. She used her knife to pry at the frame, leveraging, pulling, ignoring the burns on her hands.
The frame gave way. She squeezed through the window—barely fit, tore her shoulder on the rough edge—and fell into the courtyard as her quarters collapsed behind her in a shower of sparks.
Guards rushed over. Officers expressed shock and horror. The garrison commander was deeply apologetic—”A terrible accident! Faulty brazier! We’ll investigate immediately!”
Bullshit. Zhang Mei had checked that brazier herself before sleeping. It had been fine.
Someone had set the fire. Locked her in. Tried to make it look like tragic accident.
The investigation, unsurprisingly, found nothing. A servant was blamed—conveniently dead in an unrelated accident days later. No evidence. No witnesses. No justice.
Just another close call.
That night, alone in new quarters with guards posted—who she didn’t trust—Zhang Mei pulled out the brooch.
This was insane. She was traveling alone, vulnerable, with enemies trying to kill her. Staying meant eventually they’d succeed.
The smart choice was obvious. Leave. Use the brooch. Go home.
She held it in her palm, feeling its warmth, its power.
Thought of home. Of 2025. Of the life waiting there—safe, anonymous, simple.
The brooch pulsed. Responded. Ready.
One more thought. One moment of commitment.
But instead, she thought of Liang. Of soldiers she’d trained who were alive because of tactics she’d taught. Of work unfinished. Of partnership that mattered more than safety.
The brooch cooled. The moment passed.
She slipped it back into her pocket and forced herself to sleep.
Tomorrow she’d continue. Finish the work. Survive.
Tomorrow.
The letters from Liang became shorter. More irregular.
Zhang Mei told herself it was just pressure of his duties. Court politics. Campaign planning. New responsibilities.
But she recognized the pattern. He was pulling away. Protecting himself from the pain of separation. Maybe letting her go.
Maybe that was for the best.
Lady Chen’s notes remained consistent—practical updates, logistical coordination, occasionally a personal comment showing genuine concern. The woman was good at her role. Perfect, even.
Everything Zhang Mei couldn’t be.
At the fourteenth garrison, Zhang Mei found herself training a young officer—maybe twenty-two, sharp-eyed and eager. He reminded her painfully of herself at that age. Full of conviction, certain that dedication and skill were enough.
“Captain,” he asked one evening. “Why do you do this? Travel alone, train garrisons, risk yourself constantly? You could stay in the capital, safe and honored.”
Zhang Mei thought about that. “The tactics work. They save lives. If I don’t ensure proper implementation, soldiers will die unnecessarily.”
“But there are other advisors. Other commanders. Why does it have to be you?”
Good question.
“Because I made a promise,” she said finally. “To make sure the work mattered. To see it through.”
“To who?”
“To myself. To the soldiers. To...” She trailed off.
To Liang. Though that promise felt increasingly distant.
The young officer nodded, satisfied. But Zhang Mei felt the hollowness of her answer. She was here because she’d committed. Because leaving would be abandonment. Because the brooch in her pocket was an option she couldn’t quite bring herself to use.
But the reasons were wearing thin.
Month seven brought her to the sixteenth and final garrison. Remote, mountainous, defending against northern barbarian tribes. The commander was grizzled, competent, respectful.
“We’ve heard about your tactics, Captain,” he said. “Eager to learn. Whatever you can teach us.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.