Ten Minutes to Midnight - The Decree of the Governor

The smell of braised pork belly

Decree of the

The smell of braised pork belly and scorched garlic was still thick in the courtyard when the front gate splintered.It wasn’t a casual knock.

It was the heavy, iron-shod heel of a provincial constable’s boot hitting seasoned oak.

The latch sheared off with a dry crack , sending jagged splinters flying across the gravel.Tillie dropped her wooden spoon.

The tiny swallow chicks in the basket gave a sharp, frantic peep, terrified by the sudden bang.Felix’s father,

Lin, was halfway through calculating the spring tea tariffs on a slate abacus.

He froze, his bone-handled stylus suspended in mid-air, a drop of black ink hanging from its tip like a bead of blood.

He was a thick-set man with flour on his knuckles and silver threads in his sideburns—a man who had spent thirty years buying peace from local tax collectors through polite smiles and small jars of cured ham.Three men stepped through the shattered gate.They didn’t look like the town guards who usually loitered around the grain scales taking bribes of dried plums.

These men wore dark indigo wool tunics under stiffened leather breastplates stamped with the crest of the

District: a coiled river-serpent beneath three iron stars.

Their boots were coated in dried white dust from the high road.

The leader—a gaunt man with a pockmarked jaw and a thin, graying mustache—held a brass-bound leather cylinder under his left arm.”Arthur

Lin?” the pockmarked man asked.

His voice sounded like dry gravel being turned over with a shovel.Felix’s father stood up so fast his knee slammed into the low tea table, rattling the teacups. “I am

Sirs—officials—if this is regarding the road tax for the eastern warehouse, the receipt was filed with

Zhang’s office last fortnight—””Quiet,” the constable said.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

The two men behind him unslung short, thick-bodied crossbows from their shoulders, letting the iron stirrups clatter against the flagstones.Felix slid quietly off the bench, stepping half an inch in front of

His mother came out of the kitchen doorway, her hands wrapped in a greasy dishcloth, her face utterly drained of color.The pockmarked official uncapped the brass cylinder with a sharp pop .

He didn’t bother unrolling the parchment all the way; he simply held it by the heavy red wax seal at the bottom—a seal pressed with the grand emblem of the

Secretariat.“By order of the

Secretariat of the

Marches, acting under imperial draft prerogatives,” the official read, his eyes flicking over the black ink with cold, mechanical speed. “The household of

Lin, merchant of the third class, registered in

Township, is hereby commanded to render one eligible male youth for the

Selection of

Academy.”The courtyard went dead silent.Even the cicadas in the high locust tree outside seemed to stop.Arthur

Lin stared at the man.

His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Aethelgard?

Sir… there is a mistake.

My son is a merchant’s assistant.

He has no martial training.

He doesn’t even hold a district squire’s license.

The spring draft for the frontier garrisons isn’t due until—””It is not a garrison draft,” the official interrupted, snapping the cylinder shut. “It is an

Recommendation.

Signed by the

Clerk of the

Circuit.””A recommendation?” Felix’s mother stepped forward, her voice trembling so hard the greasy cloth slipped from her fingers onto the dirt. “He was sick two winters ago!

His lungs are weak!

He can barely haul a sack of salt up the riverbank without gasping—””Silence, woman,” one of the crossbowmen barked, resting a gloved thumb near the iron trigger-nut.Arthur

Lin didn’t look at the guards.

His eyes darted to

Felix, then back to the pockmarked official.

His hands were shaking, but his mind—the mind of a man who had survived thirty years of trade wars and corrupt magistrates—was working frantically.

He reached into his inner sleeve, his fingers fumbling with a heavy leather purse he kept for emergency bribes.”Sir… brother,” Arthur whispered, taking three quick steps forward, his face forced into a grotesque, pleading grin. “A mistake in the registry is easily made.

The ink on these district papers is often blurred by the rain.

If we could step into the back room… a cup of hot tea, thirty silver crowns to cover the travel expenses of your men…”He held out his hand under his wide cloth sleeve, pushing the heavy purse toward the constable’s belt.The pockmarked man didn’t look at the money.

He raised his right hand, his heavy leather gauntlet striking

Lin across the cheek with a dull thpack .The old merchant stumbled sideways, his boots catching on the gravel, crashing heavily against the stone washbasin.

The leather purse spilled open, sending a dozen silver coins rolling across the dirt like spilled beans.”Dad!” Tillie screamed.Felix didn’t scream.His vision narrowed.

The world seemed to drop its volume, the rush of wind in his ears turning into a dull, thrumming hum.His right hand went into his sleeve, his fingers closing around the cold, smooth glass marble.

His pulse hammered against his ribs—a heavy, panicked rhythm.If

I trigger it now—if

I push the wheel back ten minutes—He could stop his father from offering the purse.

He could tell his mother to take

Tillie out the back gate before the constables arrived.

He could hide in the grain pit under the floorboards.No.His eyes swept over the three constables.

They weren’t angry.

That was the terrible thing.

The man who had struck his father wasn’t even looking at him; he was wiping a smear of trail-grease off his leather cuff.

This wasn’t a local shakedown by

Zhang’s thugs.

This was the cold, unfeeling machinery of the

Felix vanished, they wouldn’t search

Oakhaven; they would simply hang his father from the town arch for draft evasion and seize the shop.The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water poured down his spine.The carriage.The girl with the rigid braids.

The清冷, arrogant voice behind the black silk curtains of the cab.“A nest…

How wonderfully absurd.”It hadn’t been a coincidence.

She hadn’t just been passing through

She had been testing him.

Watching him play his stupid, quiet little games under the crumbling gate.

And because he had wanted to show off—because he couldn’t resist playing the clever, eccentric prophet catching birds in his coat—he had handed her the very rope she was now using to drag him out of his life.His cleverness hadn’t saved the swallows.

It had destroyed his family’s peace.”Felix

Lin,” the pockmarked official said, turning his cold, yellowed eyes directly onto the boy. “You have two hours to gather one change of linen, one pair of boots, and three days’ dry rations.

The transport carriage leaves from the magistrate’s post at high noon.””Where?” Felix’s mother sobbed, clutching her husband’s arm as the old man pulled himself up from the gravel, a smear of blood running from his swollen lip. “Where are you taking him?””The collection camp at

Solitude,” the constable replied, already turning his back on them as if they were no longer living people, merely entries cleared from a ledger. “If he survives the

Academy will notify you by winter.””And if he doesn’t?” Arthur

Lin croaked, his voice cracking like dry straw.The constable didn’t answer.

He stepped out through the ruined gate, his boots crunching over the shattered wood.

The two crossbowmen followed, their heavy cloaks snapping in the noon breeze, leaving the

Lin family standing in the dusty, sunlit yard amid the scattered silver coins.