Dragon's Fire Consort
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 9
Pain.
That was Zhang Mei’s first conscious thought. Pain radiating from her gut outward, every nerve ending on fire, her mouth tasting like copper and bile.
She tried to open her eyes. Too bright. She tried to move. Her body refused.
Voices, distant and muffled, like speaking underwater.
“—not sure she’ll make it—”
“—keep trying, the prince needs—”
“—seven dead now, including General Han—”
Dead. General Han was dead. The knowledge cut through the fog of pain.
She forced her eyes open. Canvas overhead. The medical tent. Daylight filtering through—how long had she been unconscious?
A physician bent over her, old and grim-faced. He saw her eyes open and grunted. “Drink this.”
He held a cup to her lips. Bitter liquid that made her gag, but she swallowed. Activated charcoal, maybe? Some ancient antidote protocol?
“Prince Liang,” she croaked.
“Alive. Barely.” The physician set down the cup. “You’re both lucky. The dilution saved you. Others weren’t so fortunate.”
“How many?”
“Seven dead. Four more critical. You and the prince—you’ll survive, but recovery will take time.”
Time they didn’t have. The Xiongnu were gathering for a major assault. Their command structure was decimated. And they were both too weak to stand.
“I need to see him,” she said.
“You need to rest—”
“Now.”
The physician sighed but helped her sit up. The world spun viciously. She gritted her teeth, waited for it to stabilize, then let him support her across the tent to where Liang lay.
He looked worse than she felt. Gray-faced, hollow-eyed, breathing shallow. But conscious.
“Captain,” he rasped. “You look terrible.”
“You look worse.” She sank down beside his cot, exhausted from the effort of crossing fifteen feet. “Status?”
“Command decimated. Seven senior officers dead, including Han. General Zhao is senior now, but he’s one of the critical cases. Might not make it.” Liang’s jaw tightened. “The Xiongnu scouts have been watching. They know we’re vulnerable.”
“When will they attack?”
“Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Soon.”
“And our forces?”
“Demoralized. Leaderless. Convinced they’re going to die.”
Zhang Mei closed her eyes, thinking through tactical options with a brain that felt like it was wrapped in wool. They needed time to recover, to reorganize, to rebuild the command structure.
They didn’t have time.
“We need to promote officers immediately,” she said. “Fill the gaps in command. Can’t leave units without leadership.”
“Already done. Field promotions based on your recommendations from training.”
Good. That was something.
“And we need to address the troops. Show them we’re alive, still in command, still capable.”
“We can barely stand.”
“Then we fake it.” She opened her eyes, met his gaze. “Because if we don’t, they’ll panic. And panic loses battles faster than bad tactics.”
Liang studied her for a long moment, then smiled weakly. “You’re insane.”
“Probably. Will you do it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
Two hours later, Zhang Mei stood beside Liang in front of five thousand soldiers. Stood was generous—she was leaning heavily on a staff, using every ounce of will to keep upright. Liang looked marginally better, but only because his armor hid how much he was shaking.
The troops were silent. Watching. Waiting.
“Seven good officers died last night,” Liang’s voice carried across the assembly, stronger than it had any right to be. “Poisoned. Murdered. By cowards who feared to face us in honest battle.”
Murmurs rippled through the ranks.
“Crown Prince Zhao’s gift,” someone muttered. Loud enough to be heard.
Liang didn’t confirm or deny it. Smart. Accusing the Crown Prince directly would be treason. But letting the troops draw their own conclusions? That was just truth.
“The enemy thinks we’re weakened,” Liang continued. “They think we’ll break. They’re wrong.”
Zhang Mei stepped forward, using movement to hide how badly her hands were shaking. “We’ve trained for this. We’ve prepared for this. We’ve built tactics that have never failed us. Seven officers are dead, but their knowledge lives in every soldier who trained under them. Their expertise is in the formations you’ve drilled a thousand times.”
She gestured to the newly promoted officers standing at attention. “These are your new commanders. You’ve fought beside them. You’ve trained under them. They know the tactics. They know the terrain. They know how to win.”
“The Xiongnu will come,” Liang said. “Probably tonight. They see an opportunity—a weakened enemy, disrupted command, low morale. Let them come thinking that. Let them underestimate us.”
He drew his sword—the movement slow, careful, but still powerful. “Then we show them what Qin soldiers can do. We show them that we don’t need perfect circumstances to win. We just need discipline, courage, and the will to fight.”
The troops stirred. Not cheering yet, but not defeated either.
“We honor our fallen,” Zhang Mei said, “by surviving. By winning. By proving that poison and sabotage and cowardice can’t break us.”
“For the dynasty!” Liang shouted.
“For the dynasty!” The response thundered back.
It wasn’t perfect. The troops were still shaken, still afraid. But they were focused now. Ready to fight instead of panic.
It would have to be enough.
They barely made it back to the command tent before Liang collapsed. Zhang Mei caught him, went down with him, both of them ending up on the ground.
“That was stupid,” she gasped.
“Necessary,” he corrected, breathing hard. “Had to show strength.”
“We almost died.”
“We’re still almost dying. Just slower now.”
The physicians rushed in, helped them back to their cots. Zhang Mei’s vision was graying at the edges, her body demanding rest it couldn’t have.
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