The campfire in the cold night cast flickering shadows across the snow, sparks caught by the wind and swept over frost-covered tents like dying red butterflies. Shen Mingyue stepped through the slush as she entered the makeshift central command tent; the crisp sound of her boots crunching through thin ice startled Gu Jinghong, who was hunched over his desk writing furiously. On the map of the frontier defenses spread out before him, the mark for Yanmen Pass was heavily circled in red, the ink still wet—like a fresh wound.
Scattered around the edges of the map were several broken quill pens, their barrels stained with dried ink, silently testifying to Gu Jinghong’s exhaustion over the past few days. The candlelight swayed in the cold draft, casting their silhouettes against the cowhide tent walls; they grew and shrank, like trapped beasts shrouded in the shadow of war. The tent was thick with the scent of mugwort, an herb Gu Jinghong had specifically added to the charcoal fire to keep himself alert.
"Scouts report that the enemy has set up three lines of defense outside the pass, and the number of trebuchets is thirty percent higher than estimated." Gu Jinghong pushed a bowl of hot tea toward her; the steam rising from the celadon rim blurred the dark circles under his eyes. "The armory now has fewer than five thousand crossbow bolts fit for use."
Chapter 112