A hush blanketed the ceremonial grounds.
The arrow still trembled faintly in the center of the target, its red feathers kissed by dusk's light. It was a perfect shot—undeniable, unshakable, witnessed by all.
And from across the courtyard, Zheng An stood frozen.
Her smile, once effortless and regal, faltered at the edges. The corners of her lips twitched—just slightly, just enough for those who watched closely to see the first crack in her porcelain mask.
This was not how it was supposed to end.
She had planned every step—every word, every glance, every test. She had chosen archery because it was hers. Her arena. Her tradition. Her strength. Suyin was supposed to fail, to tremble under the pressure, to falter before the crowd and prove what Zheng An believed with all her soul:
That commoners did not belong in palaces.
That women like Han Suyin were meant to be swept aside, not lifted up.
But now—now that same girl stood beneath the setting sun, hairpin glinting like a blade, bow lowered in quiet triumph, as if she had never questioned her place to begin with.
Zheng An's fingers curled into her sleeve.
Hidden beneath the silk folds of her robe, her nails dug into her palms. Her composure held, but only barely. Her breath came just a second too late, a second too sharp.
And the worst part—the unbearable part—was the silence of the court.
No one applauded her anymore.
No one whispered her name in awe.
The eyes that had once adored her now flicked to Suyin, wide with admiration, with wonder.
She turned, mechanically, toward the Emperor and Empress, but even their expressions had changed. They said nothing yet—no words of final judgment—but the truth already hung in the air.
It wasn't just that Suyin had won the final trial.
It was that she had done so with grace, with strength, with a kind of quiet power that no noble name could mimic.
Zheng An's jaw tightened as she forced a smile back onto her lips, though it burned like ash.
"An impressive shot," she said, voice smooth but low—almost strained.
"Lady Han surprises us all."
And in her eyes—beneath the velvet of civility—a storm began to churn.
Not fear. Not regret.
Hatred.
Not just for the girl who had taken the court's heart, but for the man who had watched it happen. The man whose gaze never left Suyin's form from the shadows. The man who once belonged to no one… and now belonged to her.
Zheng An's smile sharpened like a blade drawn behind silk.
------------------
A breathless silence cloaked the palace grounds.
The arrow remained embedded in the center of the target, unwavering even as the breeze stirred the banners above. Shadows had begun to lengthen along the marbled courtyard, but the gathered nobles, scholars, and ministers stood frozen—waiting for the verdict that no longer needed words.
Still, the court required tradition.
The lead official stepped forward, the silk of his ceremonial robes whispering against the stone floor. His voice carried through the air, clear and resonant:
"The final trial has concluded."
He paused.
The entire courtyard listened, hearts caught in the pause between past and future.
"By the rules of the Zhengqing Dazheng, the victor shall be determined not only by skill in word, art, and discipline… but by heart, presence, and harmony with the spirit of the Qin court."
A low murmur of agreement passed among the officials. The Emperor sat still upon his elevated seat, his expression inscrutable, but his gaze had been fixed for some time now—not on Zheng An, but on the girl in light-purple robes, still standing beside the bow that had been gifted by his son.
The Empress spoke then, rising slightly, her voice regal and unshaken:
"We have seen a display of grace and elegance from both participants. But only one has shown growth, courage, and a heart unclouded by ambition."
She turned her eyes to Suyin.
And smiled.
The lead official opened the final scroll, stamped with the Emperor's own seal, and lifted it high.
"The winner of the Zhengqing Dazheng…"
A collective breath held tight across the courtyard.
"…is Lady Han Suyin."
Applause broke like a wave across the court—first tentative, then swelling. Some clapped with genuine delight, others in shock. But the name was spoken again and again:
Han Suyin.
The outsider. The healer.
The one who had stood against a Princess—and won.
Suyin stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. The world seemed to blur for a moment. Her fingers gripped the bow at her side as if anchoring her to this reality.
She had won.
Not because of her name. Not because of titles.
But because she had stood her ground—again and again—and stayed true to herself.
Across the courtyard, Qin Fuhua emerged at last, stepping down from the shadows of the outer pavilion. He did not smile broadly, nor did he bow with exaggeration. But his gaze found hers instantly, and in it, there was pride deeper than words.