When Petra was dragged into the tent of that high‑born Wei noble, it was the dead of winter in the third year of King Huai.

That winter, the nation of Zhongshan had fallen.

Its people were taken in chains. The men were driven across the border into Wei, forced to labor on the long walls. The women were herded into the Wei encampment, shackled and assigned as camp concubines.

Snow in Wei piled high as a man’s calf, the cold sharp as steel. It felt like the world had frozen solid.

Petra huddled against her sister, Claudia Yates, both of them trembling with the others as they waited for the Wei soldiers to decide their fate.

There were so many Wei men.

In the day, squads of soldiers swaggered in, laughing and shouting. At night, more shadows slipped toward the women’s tents, blotting out the snow at the entrance.

Flurries slapped at the tent flaps with a soft, relentless hiss. The Zhongshan women’s cries for mercy rose and fell, tangled with the loud jeers and curses of the Wei soldiers. The chaos seemed to claw straight into one’s heart.

Amid the noise, a sudden rush of footsteps sounded. The tent flap snapped open, snow gusting in as a man entered. By the dim glow of a candle, his gaze swept over the women.

Panic rippled through them. Chains clattered as they shrank back, faces wet with tears. Bodies pushed against the canvas walls until the fabric bulged outward, like frightened animals trapped in a sack with nowhere left to flee.

The newcomer narrowed his hawk‑like eyes and gave a brief, cold laugh. “Stand up. Let Grantham have a good look.”

Petra’s heartbeat stuttered. The iron cuffs biting her wrists and ankles felt like blocks of ice, so cold she hardly dared to move.

Before she could think, someone pulled her close and shielded her head with a worn sleeve, its frayed edge barely hiding her frozen face.

It was her sister. Claudia Yates.

Petra could hear Claudia’s breathing—fast, uneven—and her frantic heartbeat. Claudia was just as terrified.

Nobody lifted their heads. Nobody dared stand.

Almost at once, several Wei soldiers stormed forward, swords drawn. They raised the blades high, and the women shrieked, stumbling upright and begging again and again, “Please, my lord—spare us! Please spare us!”

Bartholomew Grantham stood before them, looking each woman over. Finally, he pointed at one whose figure and features were pleasing enough. “You. Step out.”

The chosen woman didn’t even pause; she crept forward, shaking. The general seized her chin between his fingers and asked, blunt and cold, “Are you clean?”

The woman went ghost‑white, her voice trembling so hard it nearly broke apart. “I…I have… I already have a husband…”

General Grantham let out a short, mocking laugh, then spat at her face as if she were something foul. “Drag her out. She’ll serve the troops.”

The woman collapsed as though struck by lightning. Two armored soldiers seized her by the arms and hauled her away like she weighed nothing more than a squawking chick.

Even after they had dragged her far past the tent, her wailing still tore through the cold night. “I’m clean! I’m clean! Please, General, don’t throw me to the soldiers! I’ll serve properly! General—General—!”

Everyone inside froze, shoulders trembling, heads lowered so tightly no one dared breathe wrong, much less speak.

General Grantham chuckled. “Try to lie to me—this is what you get. No need to be afraid. A noble guest drank a cup of deer‑blood wine by mistake and is blind drunk now. He wants someone untouched and pleasant‑looking to wait on him. Do it well, he’s happy—maybe you even stay with him. That’s a blessing you can’t buy.”

True enough. Compared to becoming a noble’s concubine or maid, who would choose to be a camp whore passed around by the ranks?

The women exchanged quick looks, calculating in silence. Before long, someone stepped forward in a rush. “General, look at me—I am clean! I was the niece of the Chancellor of Zhongshan, and I have a fine face besides. The noble guest will surely take to me. Please, take me to him!”

General Grantham shook his head, snorting, and tapped her chest with the hilt of his blade. “Chest’s too small.”

The Zhongshan women, terrified only moments ago, suddenly surged forward, each shoving for space and puffing out their chests. “General, look at me! My figure’s the best!”

“You? Legs are too short.”

“General, see me! My chest is full, my legs are long—I serve better than any!”

“Your waist’s thick as a barrel!”

Only Claudia Yates held Petra close, keeping the younger girl behind the cluster of desperate bodies, letting the others claw their way forward.

General Grantham’s gaze cut sharply from face to face. Yet somehow none satisfied him. Finally, he pushed the crowd aside with a sweep of his arm and barked, “You two. Heads up!”

The blade at his side caught the candlelight, glinting with a chill that made Petra’s scalp prickle. She clutched her chest, eyes squeezed shut, hardly daring to breathe.

But the general lifted his sheathed sword and pressed the tip under her chin, forcing her head up.

Claudia panicked. She stepped in front of her sister, bowing low. “General, please—spare her! My sister is young, she knows nothing. Let me serve the honored guest instead!”

He raised the candlestick, studying the two sisters carefully. The sheath slid from Petra’s chin to her chest, then down along her waist. At last, he let out a low chuckle and gestured to the soldiers beside him. “Take the younger one.”

Petra went rigid, holding herself so tight she barely dared draw a breath.

Claudia Yates tried to step in again, but the general lifted his leg and kicked her straight to the ground. His voice was harsh enough to freeze blood. “Get out of my way!”

Two armored soldiers answered at once. They grabbed Petra by both arms and dragged her toward the tent flap. Petra turned her head, searching for her sister. She saw Claudia’s eyes brimming, her face tight with grief as she whispered, barely holding her voice steady, “Little one… just do as the nobleman says…”

Petra’s heart fluttered in panic. She thought, yes… if she obeyed, maybe she wouldn’t suffer as much.

Claudia was two years older. Listening to her had never led Petra wrong.

Outside, wind and snow lashed the world. The torches scattered across the camp burned bright, but the place was still filled with the cries of Zhongshan women, sharp with despair. Chains sank into the snow, dragging at their ankles so every step felt like wading through ice.

Under the soldiers’ grip, Petra stumbled forward, half slipping, half being pushed. They twisted through the maze of tents; she lost track of time. Bit by bit, the shouting and pleading behind them faded until it was as if they’d stepped into another world.

First, they hauled her into a small tent, stripped her bare, and plunged her into cold water until she was scrubbed clean. She barely had time to catch her breath before being shoved into fresh clothing and led away again.

Before they even reached the next tent, someone tied a thick band of silk over her eyes, knotting it tight at the back of her head.

Bartholomew Grantham growled a warning beside her ear. “Keep it on. Don’t you dare try to see the nobleman’s face. If you sneak even one glance—your eyes come out. Understand?”

Her voice was thin. “Yes, my lord… I understand.”

Darkness swallowed everything.

Rough hands searched her, patting up and down to make sure she carried no blade. Only then did they let her inside.

She carried no weapon. She and Claudia had fled with nothing—clothes barely holding together, not even a coin between them. Only the broken piece of jade at Petra’s neck had any value at all.

With her eyes covered, she couldn’t find her steps. Grantham, showing the one shred of kindness he ever offered, let her hold onto the sheath of his sword as she walked.

Outside, snowstorm and chaos raged. Inside, the tent was warm like early spring.

Charcoal snapped and hissed in the brazier, shutting out the wind, the cold, the whole violent world beyond. Petra’s body, frozen for days, finally loosened, just a little.

Someone on the bed was breathing hard—thick with drink, yet beneath it carried a cool, sharp scent, like snow settling on pine.

Petra had no idea what sort of man this nobleman was. She only knew she was standing beside his bed, her heart thudding wildly like a drum struck too fast. Her fingers curled and twisted inside her sleeves, knotted tight with fear.

Then his voice came. Simple. Direct. Completely unbothered.

“Take it off.”

His tone was low, cold, roughened by liquor to a rasp—yet he said it as if stating something ordinary. Just another order. Just another night.