The barracks reeked of oil, sweat, and disuse. Shen Lian stepped into the storeroom, her boots crunching over fragments of shattered crates and scattered iron fittings.
Zhou lit a lantern behind her, the flame catching on twisted nails and soot-darkened beams.
"This was supposed to be a supply depot," she murmured. "Not a tomb."
A thin ledger sat atop a rusted shelf. She opened it.
Blank pages. One after another.
"No records," Zhou said.
"No accountability," Shen Lian replied.
She shut the book and turned. "We start tonight. I want a list of every name tied to this depot in the last three years—officers, quartermasters, even the kitchen hands. If they took from this place, I'll know."
The next morning, a small crowd of local workers gathered outside the garrison, murmuring among themselves.
A young blacksmith stepped forward. "We heard the court sent someone."
"You're looking at her," Shen Lian said.
"You're not what we expected."
"I rarely am."
She rolled up her sleeves. "I need iron, tools, and men willing to work before sunrise. You'll be paid in coin and protection. Those who cheat will hang."
By midday, sparks flew from the old forge. Zhou managed supply logs while Shen Lian met with local scribes, reassigning duties and sealing new agreements.
One officer protested, "You have no authority—"
She threw the Empress's decree on the table. "This ink gives me enough."
She leaned closer, voice low.
"But if you'd like a stronger reason, keep testing me."
The officer turned pale.
That night, from her room in the eastern watchtower, Shen Lian stared out over the flickering lamplight of a depot slowly returning to life.
Zhou entered, holding a single folded message.
"It's from the capital," he said. "No seal. Just this line: 'Foxes build dens, not palaces.'"
Shen Lian smiled coldly.
"Then let them sleep. I'm not building a palace."
"I'm building a fortress."