The promise to bring Yiren back to Qin was never a simple task. This was never just an escape. That's not how this game is played. Extraction is easy—if that's all you want. With enough gold, anything moves. But what comes after?
A hostage does not belong to himself. He is a token, a tether between states. His job is not to live well, but to die well—if it must come to that. That is his service to Qin. So to bring Yiren back in secret? That would not be a rescue. That would be treason. It would mean war.
And yet, I made the promise.
Was it foolish? Perhaps. Perhaps the dream was too far, the cost too high. But I've never built my life on perhaps. To gain what no man has, you must do what no man dares. There is no fortune in safety.
I had poured silver through every crack in the wall, lined every pocket from here to the city gate. But timing—more than gold, more than force—makes or breaks everything. It's the one element no coin can command. The invisible hinge on which every plan turns. The one factor no fool accounts for, and no master ever forgets.
And true timing? That can't be taught. You feel it. Like a trader feels the wind. Like a wolf smells blood.
The difference between triumph and ruin isn't luck.
It's patience.
And then the news came. Qin had launched a full siege on Handan—no more pretense, no more envoys. Just war.
And with it, I saw the door crack open. A sliver of legitimacy. A path. If Yiren stayed, Zhao would use him. Parade him. Kill him. Toss his body into the dirt as a message to Qin: your pawn, your blood—we cut it down. But if I took him now, in this moment? It would not be treason. It would be rescue.
I had waited long enough.
Three years.
The boy had grown—from a swaddled cry in her arms to a child who could walk, speak, laugh. That alone was enough to remind me how long I'd been waiting.
And Lady Zhao… no longer the courtesan I once sculpted to turn heads. She had dissolved into something quieter—not hardened, not sharpened, just softened by repetition. Silks gave way to cotton. Ornaments to a single ribbon. The rouge had worn off, but the dimples remained.
She no longer performed beauty. She simply wore it—like a scent left on the skin. Too faint to command a room, but still enough to warm it when she smiled. There was an ease in her now. A sweetness, lingering at the corners of her mouth.
And Yiren—he became what she needed him to be. Not a warrior, never that. But a man who could love. Who could be loved. He laughed more now. Spoke gently. Walked slower. Everything about him curled around the quiet rhythms of this hidden life—her life.
And yet—he did everything I asked. He studied Chu songs. Practiced the rites. Memorized the phrases that would charm Lady HuaYang when the time came. He listened. He obeyed. He played his part.
But I saw it, always: His soul was here—anchored to this house, this woman, this child. He would never choose to leave.
Which is why I would choose for him.
This life—humble, hidden—was the best I could give them. Not out of charity. Out of necessity. And for a time, they seemed to accept it.
Perhaps even enjoy it.
But time has a way of testing what once felt safe.
And that moment was coming.
—————————
One afternoon—just days before the gates would burn—I visited them.
She lit up when she saw me.
"Lü Buwei, you don't visit us much anymore. At this rate, next time you come, Ying Zheng will be learning the sword."
She smiled as she said it—soft, amused, a little proud.
"He already says things like, 'I'll protect Mother.'"
She mimicked the boy's voice—deep and serious—then laughed at herself.
I didn't laugh.
Not because it wasn't sweet.
Because it was.
And because sweet things don't survive war.
I glanced around their quarters. Yiren wasn't there.
She caught my look. "He's out back," she said lightly. "Fetching water."
Then she turned back to me—her smile softening, almost shy.
"You were right," she said. "Yiren's kind. Too kind. And the boy… well. He's sweeter than both of us."
She was content. Not pretending. That was the part that unsettled me most.
I said nothing for a moment. Then leaned in slightly—my voice low, meant only for her.
"Things are moving."
She stilled. The smile lingered, but something behind it slowed.
"Moving?"
"Just know this," I said, quiet but firm. "If anything happens—just protect the boy. I'll handle the rest."
Then, before Yiren could return, I added—
"Don't tell him anything."
Her eyes held mine—steady, uncertain. A flicker of confusion passed through her. She didn't understand, not fully. But she was trying to. Her head tilted slightly, chin lifting—not in defiance, but in thought. As if she were weighing something far beyond her grasp.
Then, gently, she nodded. Her gaze lingered a breath longer.
"I trust you, Lü Buwei."
I studied her for a moment. She didn't understand the shape of the danger. But she understood enough. That was Lady Zhao. Not brilliant. Not brave. But loyal—in the strangest and most foolish way.
Still beautiful. Still trusting.
And still, in some quiet way, mine.
Ruthless? Perhaps.
But great things demand sacrifices.
For her, I did what I could. Planted men nearby. Posted watchers. If danger came, they would act—hide her, hide the boy.
At least, that was the hope.
But war laughs at plans. I knew that too.
As for Yiren… He could know nothing. Not until the cart was moving. Not until the gates were behind us. Any sooner, and he would break before we began.
It would be one of the last conversations we'd have in that house.
Days later, the city would change.
And so would we.
—————————
That morning, we met as we always did. In the small pavilion near the merchant quarter, where steam curled from the brass kettle and the air was thick with plum blossom. But something hung in it. A pressure. He felt it too. He spoke little.
Neither did I.
"Let's leave earlier today," I said, rising.
He nodded.
He trusted me.
He climbed into the cart without suspicion. The streets were tense—raised voices, hurried steps—but not yet chaos. We rode in silence. Then, just past the old weaver's lane, we veered onto a side road.
Yiren noticed immediately. His body stiffened. His head snapped toward me. I felt his eyes—sharp, questioning—even as I kept mine fixed ahead.
"Master Lü," he said carefully. "This isn't the way."
I didn't answer at once. Words were dangerous—too easily twisted by tone. Instead, I turned slowly, letting my gaze hold his. Eyes have a language of their own, and I let mine speak the truth he feared to hear.
"This is it," I said at last, voice low, steady.
His face twisted—fear, betrayal, despair, all at once.
Before he could speak, before the storm could break, I placed a firm hand on his arm.
"You must trust me," I said, grip tightening. "Your family is safe. They'll be protected. But this—this is your move now. And yours alone. If Zhao takes you, they'll parade your corpse through the capital. If we succeed—your path opens.
If we fail—"
I paused.
"We don't fail."
He stared at me, breath shallow, hands trembling. For a moment, I thought he'd bolt. Flee back to the house. Back to the woman and child who anchored him.
But slowly, he nodded.
The gates loomed ahead. The sky burned red. Smoke twisted up from alleyways. Gongs rang out—sharp, metallic. The city was breaking.
The cart rolled on. The silence inside it thickened, coiled like rope. My hands clenched at my sides, trying to steady the pulse hammering through my veins. I told myself: I had made my arrangements. The bribes had been generous. The whispers precise. I knew the price of loyalty here, and I had paid it in full. I was betting big—but with stakes I believed I could control.
The guards were pawns.
And boldness had always served me well.
Zheng Yi turned back. "The gate's thinning. Guards are scattered. But the lead is watching."
"Let him watch," I said. "He's seen me a hundred times."
I turned to Yiren. "Get under the sacks. Keep still."
He hesitated. Then obeyed.
I threw just enough rice to hide him. Not too much. One mistake was all it would take.
"Drive as usual," I told Zheng Yi. "Don't stop. Don't slow."
The cart rolled forward. Hooves clattered. Wheels turned. The gate came into view.
Men shouting. Horses stamping. Blood on stone.
And there—the lead guard.
He stepped forward. One hand on his hilt. The other shading his eyes.
I climbed down.
"Master Lü," he said. "Odd day for grain."
"War doesn't wait," I replied. "Neither do mouths."
He glanced toward the cart. "Not your usual route."
"Not your usual shift," I said.
A pause.
He knew.
I leaned in, voice low. "Let us pass."
Behind me, a horn sounded—sharp, urgent. Not from the gate. From inside the city.
He flinched.
"Trouble?" I said. "If I were you, I'd be looking to your city."
A beat.
Then—he stepped aside.
I didn't wait. I spun on my heel and leapt back into the cart.
"Go!" I barked at Zheng Yi, slamming my hand against the wood.
The whip cracked. The horses surged. The wheels groaned, then caught.
We passed the threshold.
Zhao behind us. No-man's-land ahead.
I climbed up beside Zheng Yi. Neither of us spoke.
In the back, beneath rice and silence, Yiren did not move.
Only when the hills swallowed the city did I let myself breathe.
Only then did I believe we had truly won.
For now.