Weeks passed.

Mengzhang healed quickly, bloody wounds knitting into a criss-cross of scars on his back. The splint had come off his right hand and he could now flex his wrist slowly, though wielding a sabre was a challenge. Not that he had any weapon at hand.

The Ba'yens had come thrice, wanting to transport him to their main camp, but they left empty-handed every time, after Junmo declared him unfit for travel. So the Ba'yens watched their hostage like hawks, confining him to the yurt most of the time. They only granted him access to the rest of the refugee compound yesterday, after Junmo's countless appeals that a wider range of movement would speed up recovery.

"I don't get it. You're Liaotian, why would the Ba'yens even heed you?" Mengzhang strolled across the refugee compound, Junmo by his side. He was half a head taller than the frail physician, and almost twice as wide, youthful soldier's physique mostly unchanged despite recent injuries. "And what are you doing in a Ba'yen refugee camp?"

"Technically, I'm half-Liaotian. Though I was born in the Liao Kingdom."

"Half- You were born in Tian'ping?"

"During the Ba'yen Occupation. Many half-breeds were born when the Ba'yens sacked the city and raped our women. I was one of those." Junmo's tone was mild.

"Hey, I never said you were a half-breed."

Junmo smiled. His brown eyes never showed anything other than calm acceptance, though Mengzhang occasionally detected a faint hollowness behind them, like a question unanswered. "I know," Junmo said quietly. "But others say it. And that's fine too. It's just words."

Mengzhang followed Junmo across a line of dingy yurts, entrance flaps raised to reveal the families within. Thin faces peered out from dim interiors, the sound of wailing children and weeping women intermingling with the sour smell of fermented milk.

A young girl tumbled out of her yurt, tears streaking down her dirt-strewn face.

"Uncle Junmo!" She raced to Junmo, wrapping her small arms around his lower leg.

"What is it, Tuya?" Junmo unwrapped the girl's arms, crouching to look her in the eye.

"Mama, she's sick again." She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, looking angrily at the soldiers who trailed at a distance, watching their every move. "The soldiers skipped our rations last night. Again." Her lips trembled. "Mama has been giving all her food to me. She needs to eat something."

"I'll go take a look at her." Junmo shot a look at Mengzhang. "Wait here."

"Nah, I'll come too."

Tuya's mother was coughing violently as they entered. She was lying on a thin rug set upon a hard pellet, her dark brown hair matted across sweat-soaked face. It was a warm and humid day, but she was shivering.

Mengzhang cast a glance at the stove in the yurt. The fire had almost burnt out. There was no firewood left, only a few cakes of dried sheep dung packed neatly by the side. He threw a few dung cakes into the stove, then squatted down to stoke the fire while watching Junmo attend to his patient.

"Yargui," Junmo stepped to her side.

"I'm fine. Really." Yargui shook her head at her daughter. "Tuya shouldn't have disturbed you. There are others who are worse off in this compound." She coughed again.

"You know I'm here to help. Give me your hand." Junmo placed two fingers on Yargui's boney wrist, cocking his head as he tracked her pulse. Yargui's drawn countenance relaxed slowly, her pale face taking on a healthier colour. She stopped shivering.

"How is she? You can cure her, right?" Tuya implored. She squeezed herself up against Yargui on the pellet, tugging softly at her mother's coarse tunic.

"She's not in danger." Junmo lifted his hand away from Yargui, moving them to give Tuya a fond pat on her head. He turned a stern gaze to Yargui. "You need to eat. And thicker blankets would help to keep you warm at night."

"We traded most of our blankets for grain this summer," Yargui wheezed. "And if the army skips our rations again... there's nothing we can do. The Ba'yens have been irregular with our rations ever since they began their campaign to take the Eastern Pass."

The lines on Junmo's forehead deepened as he surveyed the yurt's bare interiors. "I have spare blankets. Pop by my tent later, Tuya. I'll pass them to you." His shoulders drooped ever so slightly. "As for food..."

Mengzhang cleared his throat. "The troops have been giving me my daily meals, I'll split mine with you, little girl."

"Really?" Tuya's face lit up with gratitude. "Thanks gege!"

Gege. Older brother. Only his little brother Shengzhang had ever called him that. He missed that familiar form of address. Mengzhang grinned, feeling a surge of affection for the tiny Ba'yen girl.

It's been a while I've seen Shengzhang. That rascal will be thirteen this year. Two more years and he'll be in the army too. But he has always loved his books. If we won the war ... if there was peace... would he need to enlist?

"Sharing your food doesn't solve the root of the problem. Irregular rations affect the entire compound." Junmo's solemn voice shook him from his reverie.

"I'm helping one family at the very least," Mengzhang argued.

Junmo was silent. "It's not enough," he said after a long pause. The hollowed shadows in his eyes stirred, a sheath of steel hardening beneath liquid brown. He straightened, stepping back from Yargui's bedside. "I'll... see what I can do." He sighed, then turned to address Tuya in a low voice. "In the meantime, don't let anyone know about Mengzhang sharing his food with you."

"How long have these refugees been around?" Mengzhang followed Junmo out of the yurt.

"Too long. These refugees were cast out of Tian'ping when the Crimson General retook the city. It's been years and they're still living in abject poverty, without a means of livelihood."

"What's stopping the Ba'yens from doing more for their people? Give each family a few animals, some seeds, let them be self-sufficient. Better than keeping them clustered in a settlement and feeding them half-heartedly at best," Mengzhang mused.. They kept walking, circling round a swarm of sun-browned women in coarse tunics, returning with water from a nearby stream.

"Many of these refugees aren't pure Ba'yen. Some were the offspring of interracial-couplings during Ba'yen occupation. Others..."

"Others what?"

"When the Crimson Guard retook Tian'ping, many Ba'yen womenfolk suffered in the days following the liberation. Those who survived and found themselves with child had nowhere to go," Junmo said quietly.

Mengzhang stalled mid-step. He swept his gaze across the settlement, re-evaluating the population. Most were women and children, sporting features that at first glance seemed Ba'yen - honey skin, brown hair, eyes spanning various shades of green and brown. But look again, and other features popped - the Liaotian tilt of an eye, the thin straight noses typical of those born in the North. And their speech - Ba'yen long vowels and clipped consonants coloured by the soft accent of the Liaotian tongue. The refugees were people of two worlds, born to twin empires, belonging to none.

Mengzhang frowned. "These folks are orphans of war in more ways than one."

"And yet children can't choose their parents. Or the circumstances from which they were born," Junmo reflected. He raised his head, squinting at the sun overhead as he turned to Mengzhang. "War is not the answer."

"Winning the war will bring peace. Driving out the Ba'ye savages will keep our people safe," Mengzhang insisted. "Killing the Ariq'khan will end this strife, once and for all."

Junmo only looked at him, lips pressed tightly together. It was a look Mengzhang did not understand, resignation and disappointment mixed with something else he could not identify.

"I mean it. They took me hostage - but I won't give the Ba'yens this advantage for long."

"Then what? You'll escape? Kill yourself to rid the Ba'yens of their chess piece? Assassinate Ariq'khan in full view of his generals when he finally sends for you?" Junmo asked under his breath, so quietly that Mengzhang had to strain his ears to catch him.

"Why not? My life is not my own. I live to protect my people."

"Your father taught you that."

"He did. He was right."

"You say you can give your life for victory. Your father chose to sacrifice his sons to this fight." Junmo laughed softly. "You think he has cast you away, a chess piece lost to the path of war. The Ba'yens will gain no advantage with you in their grasp."

Mengzhang was silent. He could not know for sure. But his father had always taught him the value of decisiveness. Of cutting his losses.

I'm not a lost pawn. I'm a piece placed in the most strategic position, at the heart of the enemy. The hidden blade cuts deepest.

"Whose side are you on, Junmo?" He accused.

"No one's. Everyone's. I'm a physician. I save lives." Junmo said.

"Driving back the Ba'yen savages will save Liaotian lives."

"Savages?" Junmo threw him another complicated look, a pool of steel unfurling within his light brown eyes. "That's what the Ba'yens call the Liaotians. They're fighting to protect their people too."

A strain of melody drifted into the air, wrapping invisible fingers around Mengzhang's heart. It was coming from the eastern compound, where Junmo's yurt was located.

Junmo's eyes narrowed. He picked up his pace, striding towards his yurt with renewed vigour. "You've not tasted the aftermath of war. Lived in the ruins of a sacked city. Or spent time with the common folk who suffered war's countless indignities."

"I-" Mengzhang ran to catch up. Junmo's speed seemed to have increased tenfold, yet his gait was still that of one taking a leisurely stroll. They cut through the eastern compound, weaving through increasing numbers of refugees as the music grew louder, until Junmo's yurt appeared.

A crowd had gathered in front of the physician's yurt, entranced by the source of music. There, a slender figure in red sat upon a low stool, legs crossed, playing a pipa. Sunlight crowned his long copper hair, stained his porcelain skin honeyed gold. Languid invitation danced in amber eyes, drawing his audience deeper into the lull of melody emanating from his four-stringed lute.

Mengzhang stared, unable to take his eyes off the most beautiful man he had ever seen. His gaze clung to the red-clad figure, a shining bronze god amongst mundane mortals. The pipa's melody stroked his heartstrings; a lover's caress. It lulled him, gently plucking his worries away so that there was nothing left to feel except joy, and peace, and pleasure.

There is nothing better than pleasure, he thought. Time to stop. To rest. Nothing matters.

He wanted to reach out, get nearer to such perfection. But he could not move.

"Stop this." Junmo's voice cut through the silken melody, cold steel halting temptation in its tracks. He had not raised his voice, yet Mengzhang could hear him clearly. The music faded.

Mengzhang blinked, rubbing his eyes as he re-inspected his surroundings. He could move again.

The stranger had stopped playing at Junmo's quiet command. He smiled, lifting amber eyes to meet Junmo's cool gaze. The crowd around them shifted uneasily.

"Go home, show's over," Junmo chided. Once again, his quiet voice carried.

The refugees muttered amongst themselves, gradually dispersing once they realised that the performance had ended. A few threw curious glances at the red-clad figure, but said nothing as they headed back to their tents.

"What are you doing here, Shiyao?" Junmo's voice was weary.

Shiyao shrugged. "I came all the way to see you, old friend. And this is the reception I get?"