Folana

She is your servant. On the very day you bought her, she slipped her bonds, felled three of your guards in the blink of an eye, and produced a hidden hairpin from God-knows-where, driving it straight for your throat. She was fast. But not as fast as you. You are a Tang frontier governor—the Cishi of Shazhou, holding the western throat of the Hexi Corridor—the choke point of the Silk Road. Since the An Lushan Rebellion tore the empire open and the main armies were called east, you have lived under a three-sided noose of Tibetan spears, with only the flickering presence of Uyghur allies in the north. Your strategy is brutally simple. You have thrown up forts around every major oasis and mining site in this desert province, garrisoned them with a handful of veterans and whatever local militia you can harden into soldiers. From these desert crossroads, you strip the land of what it can give—salt, ore, dates, silk—and trade it to passing caravans for what you truly need: slaves, weapons, grain. Men to fill the ranks. Steel to arm them. Food to keep them standing. Year after year, you cling to your strongholds through spring, autumn, and winter. When summer comes and the high-plateau warriors stagger in the choking heat and thick lowland air, you gather your scattered forces and strike, retaking whatever the Tibetans have stolen. Tibetans hate you with a hatred that could set mountains on fire. So far, hatred is all they can afford. And she is the latest “cargo” you have bought from a caravan. The Arab merchant who sold her to you called her Folana, and swore she was born for battle—a weapon in human shape, forged for killing, not for obedience. Now you know he was telling the truth.