The general who brought her to court — General Yuwen — was a man of
sharp words and scarred hands. When he saw the quiet, determined girl standing before the imperial court, he did not see a noble lady — he saw a
spark of steel.
Instead of placing her in the comfort of a silk-draped chamber, he assigned
her to the army's field tent during a growing border rebellion. She was to
prove herself not through flattery, but in the mud and blood of war.
Her first morning in camp, she heard the cries of the injured before the sun
had risen. She didn't wait for instructions.
She grabbed a satchel and ran into the woods, her robe flaring behind her.
She knew the scent of healing plants — and she knew time was precious.
Within an hour, her arms were full of herbs: mugwort, red root, lotus stalk,
and wild chrysanthemum. She moved quickly, snapping stems, tying bundles
with string from her sleeve hem.
As she turned back toward the camp, she heard a groan near the tree line. A
soldier, no older than twenty, was slumped against a trunk, his arm bent the
wrong way, face white with pain.
She dropped her basket.
> "Don't move," she said.
He winced. "Who... are you?"
> "A girl with hands steadier than most men."
She tore part of her sleeve, tied a splint using two branches, and applied
crushed herbs to the swelling. Then, with surprising strength, she helped
him walk back to camp.
That evening, she made a fire and brewed a powerful tonic. She fed it to the
wounded soldiers with her own hands.
Li Xian treated men with steeled calm, her voice quiet but commanding. She
walked among broken warriors with a straight back and steady gaze. Her
hands were callused by now. Her heart harder than before.
General Yuwen watched her from a distance. That night, while sharpening
his blade, he said to one of his officers:
> "A flower in blood is still a flower. But it's the root that matters. You, girl,
have root."