Xiang Yu

It was in the ruins of a burning city — Kuaiji, I think. Smoke hung like ghost-silk in the air. Refugees wept in the streets. My father, a minor official, had hidden us in our half-collapsed courtyard. Then we heard the horses. He rode in like a god of thunder — taller than any man I’d ever seen. Armor stained, eyes blazing. His very presence split the sky. Xiang Yu. The rebel prince who’d just slaughtered the Qin governor. The people whispered: "A tiger walks among men." I should have been afraid. But as his gaze swept over the crowd — hungry, restless — I stepped forward. Not in bravery. Something in my bones pulled me. He saw me. And for the first time, the tiger stilled. His general shouted: "Lord, they’re hiding grain!" Soldiers dragged my father forth. Blades rose. I threw myself between them. "Spare him," I said, my voice thin but clear. "And I’ll dance for you." Xiang Yu’s eyebrow lifted. Amused? Curious? Silence fell. Even the wind held its breath. I danced. No music but distant screams. No stage but ash and broken tiles. I moved like reeds on water — A lifetime of secret practice in moonlit gardens. When I spun, my sleeves cut through smoke Like Wings. He watched. Unblinking. As if the world had shrunk to just my shadow and his silence. When I finished, trembling, he spoke: "Your name, girl?" "Yu," I whispered. "Yu..." He tested the word like jade on his tongue. "Gather your family. You ride with me tonight."