Chapter 1: The City of Reed and Clay

The city walls of Cheng loomed above the Yellow River’s twisting course, battered by the howling north winds and flecked with the ochre dust of late autumn. Inside, the streets bustled with the hurrying feet of merchants and the clatter of ox carts. Yet an unease threaded through the market stalls, a tension that pressed on the breath of every citizen. Tang, son of the court musician, stood in the shadow of the Temple of Ancestral Spirits, his fingers numb on the strings of his ancient guqin. His father, old and stooped, had sent him to rehearse for the Coming of the Duke—a ceremony meant to reaffirm Cheng’s loyalty to the Zhou king. But rumors swept the city like wildfire: the Zhou armies, led by King Xuan himself, had taken the neighboring state of Yan. Now, only the frail walls and trembling hearts of Cheng stood between the Zhou and the southern plains. “Do not let your hands tremble, Tang,” his father said, voice low. “The fate of our house may hang upon the sound of your song.” Tang swallowed. He was seventeen, with a youth’s slender build and a face not yet hardened by war. His mother, gone since the last famine, had left him with little but a memory of lullabies and a love of music. His father’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, watched every movement. As evening fell, Tang’s friend and fellow musician, Zhi, approached, carrying a battered bamboo flute. “The Duke’s men are restless,” he whispered. “Some say the Zhou have sent envoys demanding tribute. Others say they want blood.” Tang looked toward the palace, its tiled roofs dusted by smoke from a thousand cooking fires. “Do you believe the city will fall?” he asked. Zhi’s smile was tight. “If the Duke bends his knee, perhaps we live. If he does not…” A gong echoed from the palace, summoning them to rehearse. The city’s heartbeat, Tang thought, was louder now—pounding, fearful, desperate. As he followed Zhi toward the palace gates, he wondered if, in the days to come, his music would be played for joy or for mourning. —

Chapter 2: The Duke’s Dilemma

The palace chamber flickered with lamplight and the scent of sandalwood incense. The Duke of Cheng, a man with silver in his hair and a deep furrow between his brows, sat atop the carved wooden dais, surrounded by counselors and guards. Tang and Zhi knelt before him, instruments poised. “Play the Song of the River Spirits,” the Duke commanded, his voice weary. “Let the ancestors hear our devotion.” Tang’s fingers moved across the guqin, coaxing a melody as ancient as the city itself. Each note drifted upward, mingling with the sighs of noblemen and the whispers of anxious servants. The Duke’s eyes closed, as if the music could drown the clamor of marching armies and the sting of betrayal. When the song ended, the chief counselor stepped forward. “My lord, Zhou envoys await your answer. They demand you send your son as hostage and pledge the city’s wealth. The people grow restless.” The Duke’s jaw tightened. “My son is but a child.” Tang caught a flicker of pain in the Duke’s gaze—a man torn between honor and survival. He remembered stories his father told, of the Shang kings who once ruled these lands, their power swept away by the Zhou. Now the fate of Cheng balanced on a blade. After the court dismissed, Tang lingered in the corridor, listening as the Duke’s son, a boy of ten, argued with his tutor. “Why must I go to Haojing?” the child pleaded. “Will I ever return?” The tutor’s reply was soft. “You go for the city, for your father. You must be brave.” Tang retreated, heart heavy. He found Zhi waiting in the courtyard, the night chill biting their skin. “Would you go, if it were you?” Zhi asked. Tang shook his head. “I do not know. But I would not wish it on my enemy.” Above them, the stars wheeled silently, heedless of the sorrows of men. —

Chapter 3: The Breaking of Oaths

Days passed in a blur of anxious preparation. The city swelled with refugees from the north, their faces gaunt and haunted. The Duke’s counselors argued behind closed doors, while the common folk hoarded rice and whispered of omens: a comet in the sky, the sudden death of a temple ox, the river’s muddy waters. Tang’s father watched the chaos with grim resignation. “When great powers contend, it is the reeds who are trampled,” he muttered. On the morning of the envoy’s arrival, Tang and the musicians assembled in the palace forecourt. The Zhou envoys entered with lacquered armor and cold, appraising eyes. Their leader, Lord Wei, knelt before the Duke and recited the king’s demands: surrender the Duke’s son, open the city’s gates, and send tribute of grain and jade. In return, Cheng would be spared. The Duke’s face was a mask. “Will the king swear this upon the spirits of earth and sky?” he asked. Lord Wei smiled thinly. “He will. But know this: our patience is not endless. Refuse, and the Zhou armies will show no mercy.” That night, Tang lay awake listening to the distant wailing of mothers and the shouts of soldiers drilling by torchlight. In the darkness, Zhi confessed his fears. “My uncle says the Zhou are ruthless. If the Duke resists, they will burn the city to ash.” Tang stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks where the mud plaster had fallen away. “If I could sing a song to save us, I would.” But there were no songs strong enough to halt an army. —

Chapter 4: The Hostage

The day of the sacrifice dawned bleak and gray. The Duke’s son, dressed in mourning white, stood before the assembled court. His small hands trembled as he knelt beside his father. Tang played the Lament of Departure, his guqin’s notes trembling on the morning air. The city’s elders wept openly; some turned their faces away. The Duke’s wife clung to her son, her cries muffled by embroidered sleeves. Lord Wei accepted the boy with formal words, but Tang saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes. The Zhou envoys departed with their hostage, and the city held its breath. That night, a riot broke out by the south gate. Hungry men, driven mad by fear and uncertainty, attacked the granary. In the chaos, Zhi’s father was struck down trying to shield his youngest daughter. Zhi returned to the musician’s quarters, blood on his sleeves, eyes wild. “They killed him for a handful of millet,” Zhi whispered, voice broken. “This is what’s left to us—tears and ashes.” Tang held his friend until the dawn, heart aching with helplessness. The city, once proud and full of song, was now a place of mourning. —

Chapter 5: The Fall of Cheng

The weeks that followed were marked by silence and dread. The Zhou armies camped beyond the river, their banners stark against the winter sky. The Duke grew gaunt, his hair gone to snow, his court hollowed by fear. One morning, word spread: the Zhou had crossed the river under cover of mist. The city’s defenders, weary and ill-fed, fell quickly. Flames rose from the outer wards. The Duke, refusing to flee, gathered his household in the ancestral hall. Tang’s father pressed a bundle into his hands. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse. “Find safety by the southern marsh. Do not look back.” “I cannot leave you,” Tang protested. “You must,” his father insisted. “Our line may die, but you must remember the old songs. Someone must remember.” Tang fled through the smoke-choked streets, Zhi at his side. Behind them, the palace burned. The cries of the dying echoed through the night. By dawn, Cheng was no more. —

Chapter 6: Exile Among the Reeds

Tang and Zhi hid in the marshes for days, surviving on bitter roots and river water. The world had grown small: the chirr of insects, the splash of fish, the distant thunder of Zhou drums. One afternoon, they met a band of survivors—women, children, a few old men—huddled in terror. Tang shared what little food he had, and in return, the elders asked him to play. He drew his guqin from the bundle, fingers stiff with cold, and played the Song of Mourning. Zhi wept openly, his grief raw. “What is left to us now?” he cried. “Our homes are ash, our families gone.” Tang’s heart was hollow, yet as the last notes faded, an old woman laid her hand on his. “Your song is Cheng now,” she said. “So long as you remember, so long as you play, our city is not forgotten.” Tang bowed his head, tears slipping down his face. Music was all he had left. —

Chapter 7: The Last Song

Winter deepened over the ruined land. The Zhou solidified their rule, installing new lords and crushing the memory of Cheng beneath their banners. Tang and Zhi wandered south, following the river’s winding course. They played in village squares, for food or shelter, their melodies echoing with loss. One day, as the plum blossoms began to bloom, Tang felt his father’s guqin crack beneath his hands. The sound splintered, sharp and final. He fell to his knees, clutching the broken instrument. Zhi knelt beside him, silent. Tang looked to the sky, where the river met the clouds. He remembered the Duke’s son, the palace halls, and the city’s laughter. All gone, yet alive in song. He took up Zhi’s flute and played a final melody—a lament for Cheng, for the lost and the broken, for the fathers and sons scattered to the winds. When he finished, the reeds stirred in the breeze, and for a moment, it seemed the city lived again in the music. But all things pass. Tang rose, the flute in his hand, and began to walk south. He would remember, always. —