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They had only one cannon left. Mulan held her breath, digging her heels deep into the snow as she surveyed the valley ahead for any sign of the Huns. Nothing. From the heights above where, only minutes ago, a barrage of enemy arrows had rained down death upon them—also nothing. All was still. Too still. Mulan knew better than to hope the silence meant the Huns had retreated. No, with each passing second, her apprehension grew. None of the soldiers beside her—Yao or Ling or Chien-Po, or even her dragon guardian, Mushu—said a word. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Her eyes focused on a plume of smoke curling across the top of the hill, moving like a dark and foreboding shadow. As it thinned into the air, Mulan’s brow furrowed. There was something behind the smoke. No, someone. Dread twisted in her gut. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking the imposing form mounted on a black horse.