Dragon's Fire Consort
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4
The northern training grounds stank of sweat, leather, and horse manure. Zhang Mei had never been so happy to be away from silk and incense.
Two weeks. That’s all they had to turn three thousand Qin soldiers into a force capable of fighting Xiongnu raiders using tactics their officers had never seen before.
No pressure.
“Again!” she shouted, watching the light infantry unit attempt the maneuver for the third time. “You’re still bunching up! Spread formation—ten paces between each man! The Xiongnu archers need to pick targets, not mow down clusters!”
The soldiers adjusted, slowly. They were good troops—disciplined, experienced—but breaking ingrained formation habits was like teaching them to walk backward.
General Han observed from horseback, his expression somewhere between skepticism and grudging interest. He’d spent the past week testing her, questioning every tactical decision, pushing back on every unconventional suggestion.
She’d expected it. Welcomed it, even. Better to have officers who challenged her thinking than yes-men who’d get soldiers killed.
Prince Liang rode up beside Han, both of them watching the drill. Liang had been present for every training session, learning alongside his men, asking sharp questions, implementing changes immediately when something worked.
He was a good commander. She could respect that.
“The spread formation makes them vulnerable to cavalry charge,” Han said, not for the first time.
“Only if they stay static,” Zhang Mei replied, also not for the first time. “The whole point is mobility. They harass, retreat, reposition. Don’t give the Xiongnu a solid target to charge.”
“And if our own cavalry needs to support them?”
“Then we use flag signals for coordination.” She’d spent three days working out a system of colored flags that could communicate basic tactical commands across distance. Nothing sophisticated, but better than shouting or hoping everyone stayed in visual range of their commander.
Liang dismounted, landing beside her with easy grace. He’d stopped wearing full armor for training, dressed now in practical leather and dark cloth. “Show him the archer formation again.”
Zhang Mei gestured to a different unit—bowmen arranged in a staggered line rather than the traditional massed ranks. “The Xiongnu use composite bows with better range than ours. We can’t out-shoot them. But we can make ourselves harder targets while maintaining effective volleys.”
She raised her hand. The lead archer—a grizzled veteran named Zhao who’d taken to the new tactics with surprising enthusiasm—barked an order. The formation shifted, half the men stepping back and to the side, creating depth and spacing.
“On my mark,” Zhang Mei called. “Volley fire!”
Three waves of arrows, staggered by the formation depth, each volley covering while the previous rank reloaded. Continuous pressure without the vulnerability of everyone loosing simultaneously.
General Han’s eyebrows rose. “That’s ... actually effective.”
“It’s also exhausting,” Zhao called out, his men breathing hard. “They’ll need stamina training.”
“Then train stamina,” Liang said. “We have eleven days.”
The general nodded slowly, turned his horse. “I’ll implement this with the second and third battalions.”
After he rode off, Liang looked at Zhang Mei with something like amusement. “He respects you now. That’s rare.”
“He respects results. The tactics work.”
“They do.” He watched the archers reset for another drill. “Where did you learn this? Really? These aren’t just ‘different philosophy’ tactics. This is systematic, tested. Like you’ve seen it work before.”
She’d known this question was coming. Had been preparing for it.
“I told you. I’m from very far away.” She met his eyes. “So far that explaining it would sound like madness. But the tactics work. That’s what matters.”
“Does it bother you? That I don’t know the truth?”
“Does it bother you that I won’t tell you?”
He considered that. “No,” he said finally. “Everyone has secrets. I have mine. You have yours. As long as we’re honest about what matters—the campaign, the strategy, keeping these men alive—the rest can wait.”
It was a generous answer. More generous than she deserved, probably.
“What are your secrets?” she asked.
His smile was sharp-edged. “I’m the Emperor’s second son. I win battles but refuse to execute prisoners. I value competence over bloodline. In my father’s eyes, those are all failures.” He gestured at the training ground. “This campaign is a test. If I succeed, I remain useful. If I fail...”
“You won’t fail.”
“Because you won’t let me?”
“Because we won’t let us.” She corrected. “Partners, remember?”
Something shifted in his expression—softened, maybe. “Partners.”
The days blurred together. Training at dawn, tactical planning in the war room, modifications based on what worked and what didn’t. Zhang Mei fell into bed each night exhausted, her muscles aching from demonstrating techniques, her voice hoarse from shouting orders.
It felt more like home than anything had in years.
Xiu complained that she was getting too much sun, that her hands were developing new calluses, that she smelled like horses. Zhang Mei ignored her.
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