The Iron General's Silent Vow

The desert beyond Pingjin Pass was the domain of the Tatar tribes. In the twenty-ninth year of the Chengyuan era, the Tatars had crossed the border of the Jing Empire, pillaging and burning with such arrogance that the common folk could find no peace. Border commanders had attempted to suppress them multiple times to no avail. It was only when Isabella Irving, the Grand Commander of the Northwest, arrived with three thousand iron cavalry that the tides turned. Joined by the garrison at Yanzhou, they drove the barbarians back beyond the pass, finally bringing the conflict to a halt.

In the spring of the thirtieth year of Chengyuan, several Tatar tribes surrendered. They submitted petitions for peace, requesting to become vassals of the Jing Empire and promising annual tributes of grain, horses, and jewels. Isabella Irving set out beyond the pass under imperial decree to negotiate the terms, but she was ambushed in the province of Qizhou.

The northern lands were parched, and the world beyond the pass was a landscape of swirling yellow sands. Twenty miles west of Qizhou City lay a massive sinkhole formed by collapsing sandstone, known as the Golden Pit.

Merchant caravans feared the quicksand and usually made a point of bypassing the area, meaning few people ever traveled nearby. Now, however, the pit was carpeted with corpses. The very sand had been stained a dark, bruised red. Vultures circled the road, descending toward the hollow. The Golden Pit had become a blood bath.

Isabella Irving sat beside her own corpse for a day and a night. The wind howling against her carried a heavy, cloying scent of iron and rot. Yellow sand coated her face, partially obscuring the dark lividity of post-mortem bruising. The only vibrant color left on her face was her lips, stained deep with blood.

She looked down, reaching out to brush the grit from her skin and wipe away the mottled bloodstains, but her hand simply passed through the body. It dispersed like mist and then coalesced again.

Isabella remained expressionless, acting as if she could not sense that her spirit was incapable of touching physical matter. She reached out again and again, her fingers slipping through her own cold flesh a thousand times. She would not give up, stubbornly trying to erase those marks of violence.

Eventually, she was forced to accept the reality: she was truly dead.

She had not fallen under the blade of a fierce enemy, but had been cut down by her own brothers-in-arms. To make matters worse, she still did not know who the traitor was. The shifting sands would bury everything here. After tonight, the tragedy at Qizhou would become nothing more than a footnote in the history books, an ordinary skirmish. No one would know the treachery that had occurred, and she had no way to relay the truth to the world.

Legend said that if a person died without anyone to claim the body or offer sacrifices, they would become a wandering ghost. With both parents dead and no family to speak of, Isabella was truly alone. She feared that before anyone arrived, she would be nothing more than carrion for the vultures.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, she heard the faint thrum of hoofbeats. They were far off, spilling down from the horizon, but they grew steadily clearer.

The pace was frantic. To her ears, the sound felt like a sudden downpour drumming against a broken windowpane, crashing unexpectedly against her heart. Isabella lifted her eyelids and watched the figure galloping toward her, half-convinced she was hallucinating.

The rider was caked in dust and sand, his posture rigid with panic. When he dismounted, his movements were so stiff that he practically tumbled from the saddle. He struggled to his feet, stumbling and falling again after only a few steps. He scrambled through the sea of corpses, searching desperately for someone.

Isabella watched him in silence. She assumed he was the relative or friend of some soldier, come to reclaim a body after hearing news of the disaster.

The man pushed through the piles of remains. His long, snow-white robes were now soaked in blood. As he searched, his expression shifted through a harrowing spectrum of fear, hope, and burgeoning dread.

On a battlefield, blades were indiscriminate; most of the bodies were mangled, their features unrecognizable. His search was agonizingly slow. His movements became sluggish as rotting flesh clung to his silk robes and blood smeared across his face. He searched from dawn until dusk, finally coming to a stop in front of Isabella.

By then, he no longer had the strength to stand. He crawled the last few feet on his elbows. Isabella felt an inexplicable surge of panic. She had been sitting motionless, but now her fingers curled instinctively. Though she was a ghost, she felt as if her breath had hitched. The man collapsed beside her, his eyes so red they looked as if they might weep tears of blood.

A sound rattled in his throat, like rusted iron grinding together. "Isabella..."

He raised his hand and let it fall. The arm emerging from his long sleeve trembled like a branch whipped by a storm. Isabella did not recognize him, yet a thought rose unbidden in her mind: He is looking for me.

The man’s hand shook violently as his fingertips brushed against Isabella’s cheek. He tried to wipe away the dust and blood, but he couldn't seem to find the right spot. His touch faltered, trembling like a leaf.

The last light of the setting sun was fading, giving way to the encroaching gloom. A few stars flickered over the ridges. High above, a wild goose cut through the golden clouds, diving low into the barren, sandy wind before silence reclaimed the desert.

As the man knelt beside her, the jade pendant at his waist swung forward. Isabella finally saw the pattern carved into it: "Sea Tide Rising." It was a design created by Master Lysander Langerton of The Grand Academy, later carved into jade and gifted to his favorite pupil.

If she remembered correctly, that pupil’s name was Dominick Delafontaine.

The realization hit her like a thunderbolt. Her gaze moved up to the man's face. Years ago, her father had arranged a marriage for her. She had been betrothed to Dominick, the son of Mordecai Delafontaine, the Marquis of Qing.

But after her father’s death, she had gone north to lead the army and rarely returned to the capital. Dominick’s career had been derailed by a severe eye illness, and since she had no desire to marry, the engagement had become a mere formality. Four years ago, she had visited his estate in person to break the betrothal.

Isabella couldn't recall having any real friendship with Dominick. The only link between them was that discarded vow. she felt nothing for him, and she assumed he felt the same for her. She never could have imagined that after the disaster at Qizhou, the first person to come for her would be Dominick Delafontaine.

No wonder he had spent so long pressing his face close to each corpse to identify them. There were thousands of bodies in the Golden Pit, many of them dismembered. With his failing eyesight, finding her must have been nearly impossible. How had a half-blind man managed to travel all the way from the Radiant Capital, thousands of miles away?

All emotion drained from Dominick’s face. He slowly leaned down and used a relatively clean part of his sleeve to wipe the grime from Isabella’s face. His movements were incredibly light, possessed of a near-sacred tenderness.

Isabella’s mouth opened, a word forming on her tongue, but she remembered too late that she was a ghost. She had no voice for the living.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the last streak of crimson was swallowed by the night. Dominick bent over and gathered Isabella’s body into his arms. Behind them, the winding trail of his footprints was slowly filled by the drifting sands. He walked slowly, his shadow stretching long and thin across the vast, desolate scrubland.

In the thirtieth year of Chengyuan, Isabella Irving, Grand Commander of the Northwest, was ambushed on her way to negotiate with the Tatars. It was officially recorded that her remains were never recovered.

***

Isabella’s coffin rested in Dominick’s private villa. It had been three days since they returned to the Radiant Capital from Qizhou. In the imperial court, the debate over how to handle the disaster had descended into chaos. Most officials were busy impeaching Isabella, a small faction called for a posthumous title, and the rest remained silent, either watching the struggle from the sidelines or too terrified to be associated with the matter.

Candlelight flickered in the hall. Isabella stood silently in the corner. She still bore the appearance she had at the moment of her death: a gruesome, empty hole in her chest, her light armor tattered and hanging from her frame, and a wound on her leg so deep it exposed the bone.

She glanced at her body inside the casket. The clothes were new and exquisite, and her face had been lightly touched with makeup. Dominick had somehow found a way to remove the post-mortem bruising. At a glance, the woman in the coffin looked as though she were merely sleeping.

The capital was suffering from a rare late-spring chill. A heavy snow had fallen two nights ago and had yet to melt. Dominick, dressed in white mourning robes, sat on the floor before the altar. A stack of papers covered in elegant script lay beside him—likely elegies or funeral prayers.

He had hardly left the room in three days. He hadn't eaten, only taking a few sips of water, spending the vast majority of his time kneeling before the spirit tablet. Isabella watched him, feeling a mixture of shock and guilt. To think that Dominick would do all this for her, based solely on a broken engagement and no real history between them, was more than she could fathom.

Snowmelt dripped from the eaves, pattering rhythmically against the stone steps. Footsteps sounded outside. Isabella looked up to see a young man dressed as an attendant appear at the door. He paused to shake the frost and dew from his clothes. His damp fringe was plastered to his forehead by the melting snow.

Dominick did not turn around. With his eyes downcast, he placed a sheet of the funeral text into the burning brazier.

"Master," the newcomer whispered. This was Caleb Clayborne, Dominick’s trusted confidant, who had met him when he arrived back in the capital with Isabella’s body.

Dominick watched the paper disappear into the flames and gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he reached into the fire and pulled out the half-charred paper with his bare hand. A ring of blisters immediately bubbled up on his wrist.

Caleb cried out in alarm, "Master!"

Dominick winced, his brow furrowing as he crumpled the half-burnt text in his palm. He shook his head. "It’s nothing. Go on."

Caleb hesitated, looking as if he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. He hovered by the door for a long time before finally stammering out, "Master, regarding that... today, Cornelius Carrington of the Censorate submitted a memorial to the throne. He is impeaching General Irving. He says... he says..."

Isabella stared at the burn on Dominick’s hand. She and Cornelius Carrington had never gotten along; he used to submit dozens of complaints against her every year. This was hardly surprising.

Dominick kept his head low, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. "What does he say?"

Caleb rubbed his nose nervously. "He says her negligence as commander and her failure to maintain discipline led to this disaster. He says that even though she is dead, her death is not enough to atone for her crimes. He wants her... her titles stripped and her rank abolished..."

Dominick remained silent for a heartbeat, then suddenly slammed the iron fire tongs onto the floor.

He stood up, his legs stiff from hours of kneeling, causing him to sway for a moment. His face was cold as he gestured for Caleb to continue.

The clang of the tongs echoed through the hall. Caleb flinched. His master was usually the picture of composure and gentleness; he rarely lost his temper. This time, he was truly incensed.

"More than a dozen other officials joined Carrington in the impeachment. His Majesty was furious today. Carrington is still kneeling outside the palace gates. He swore that if the Emperor does not punish General Irving, he will bash his brains out against the pillars of the Golden Throne."

Isabella thought to herself, *Wow. Carrington is really going all out this time.*

Dominick let out a cold laugh. "Then let him die," he said softly.

He straightened his back, the crumpled paper falling from his hand. He stood in his white mourning clothes, his back to the light. Isabella, standing by the coffin, was caught off guard when his gaze seemed to meet hers. Her heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively looked away. It took her a moment to realize that she was a ghost and he was nearly blind. He couldn't see her.

The doors were pulled shut, and the light in the hall dimmed. Isabella stepped out from the shadows. Since her soul was tied to her remains, she was confined to the mourning hall. At least Dominick was gone now; she could finally quiet her mind and think through everything that had happened.

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