Dragon's Fire Consort
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2
The guards flanked her immediately—not hostile, but firm. Zhang Mei went with them because fighting now would be stupid, and she hadn’t survived special forces training by being stupid.
Xiu trailed behind, practically vibrating with shock. The other women stared as they passed, some furious, others bewildered. Zhang Mei ignored them all, focused on memorizing the route. East wing. Three left turns, two rights. Guards posted every twenty paces. High windows—too high to be useful for escape, but good for natural light and air flow.
Professional assessment, automatic.
They stopped at a set of bronze doors twice her height, decorated with more dragons. Everything here was dragons. The guards pushed them open and gestured for her to enter.
Prince Liang’s quarters.
The space was unexpectedly austere. Yes, there were the required silk wall hangings and carved furniture, but there were also weapon racks—real ones, holding swords and spears that showed use. Maps spread across a low table, weighted with stones. The smell of weapon oil and ink, not just incense.
A soldier’s room, dressed up in palace finery.
The doors closed behind her with an ominous thud. Zhang Mei was alone with Prince Liang for the first time.
He’d removed the outer layer of armor, stood now in dark silk that somehow made him look more dangerous, not less. He poured tea from a ceramic pot, the movements precise.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to cushions by the low table.
Zhang Mei sat, keeping her back straight, her hands loose. Ready.
He handed her a cup. “You’re not from Xianyang.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “No.”
“Your accent is strange. Southern? But not quite.” He sipped his own tea, watching her over the rim. “And your hands have calluses in the wrong places for embroidery or music. More like—” He set down his cup, held up his own scarred hands. “Like these.”
She’d underestimated him. That was dangerous.
“I’m from far away,” she said carefully. “Very far.”
“Clearly.” He leaned back, still studying her with that unreadable gaze. “What’s your name? Your real name, not whatever title your family bought.”
“Zhang Mei.”
“Just Zhang Mei?”
“Captain Zhang Mei.” The rank slipped out before she could stop it. Old habit.
His eyes sharpened. “Captain? Military rank?”
Shit. She’d already said too much, but lying now would be worse. She’d committed. “Yes.”
“We don’t have female soldiers in Qin.” A statement, not a judgment. “Or captains so young. You’re what, twenty-three? Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-three.”
“So. Captain Zhang Mei from very far away, who fights but doesn’t sing.” He poured more tea. “Why did you come to the consort selection?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” The truest thing she’d said since arriving. “I woke up here three days ago with no memory of how I got here. That girl—Xiu—told me I’d been fevered, that I had to attend. So I attended.”
He absorbed that in silence. Then: “You’re a terrible liar.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not lying.”
“No. You’re telling the truth, which is what makes you terrible at lying. You don’t have the face for it.” He smiled, sharp-edged. “Everyone else in that hall was performing. You were just ... yourself. Either remarkably brave or remarkably stupid.”
“I’ve been called both.”
“I believe it.” He stood, walked to one of the weapon racks, and selected a practice sword—blunted iron, but still a weapon. He tossed it to her.
Zhang Mei caught it one-handed, her body responding before her mind caught up. The balance was different from what she was used to, the weight distribution unfamiliar, but it was still a blade.
Liang drew his own practice sword. “Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“That you can fight. You made a claim in front of my father’s court. Now prove it.”
This was a test. Everything here was a test.
Zhang Mei stood, adjusted her grip on the sword. The hanfu was ridiculous for fighting—too much fabric, too restrictive. She hiked the skirt up and tucked it into the sash, ignoring his raised eyebrow.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
He came at her fast—not full speed, but testing. A probing strike, high to low. She parried, felt the shock of impact sing up her arm. His strength was considerable, his technique refined. Centuries of martial tradition behind every movement.
But she had something he didn’t: Krav Maga, modern hand-to-hand combat, training designed for efficiency over elegance.
He struck again. She parried, stepped inside his guard—closer than traditional sword work would allow—and swept his leg.
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.