The grand council chamber was cloaked in shadows when they arrived.
Though the hour was early, the ministers had gathered in full, their embroidered robes glinting under the lamplight like coiled serpents. Eyes turned as Rui and Li Yuan stepped through the arched doorway—together, not as sovereign and consort, but as equals in defiance.
Minister Han of the Northern Province rose first, his voice smooth and sharp. "Your Majesties," he said with a bow that barely reached the floor. "Forgive the urgency. We were not aware you would attend."
Li Yuan didn't smile. "And I wasn't aware the council meets in secret while the empire still sleeps."
Tension rippled.
Rui stepped forward, his calm gaze sweeping over the room. "If your words hold no poison, then sunlight should not frighten you."
Murmurs stirred, but no one challenged him.
The head of the Western delegation, Minister Bao, cleared his throat. "It is not poison we bring, but concern. The empire whispers of omens, of unrest. The crops wither, the winds carry fire. We must ask—has the emperor brought calamity upon us by uniting with one born of foreign blood and ancient rites?"
Rui's breath caught—but Li Yuan was quicker.
"The calamity," Li Yuan said coldly, "is not in our union. It is in your cowardice. You fear prophecy more than injustice. You fear a power that does not kneel to you."
Bao's face flushed. "We do not speak of fear, but of duty."
"Then let us speak plainly," Rui said, stepping beside Li Yuan. "You've known for months that I am not like others. You've watched as temples awaken, as the old ruins stir, and yet you say nothing. Now you pretend shock, but your silence was complicity."
Minister Han's fingers tightened on the hilt of his fan. "And what would you propose, Your Majesty? That we embrace a prophecy we do not understand? That we allow the heavens to be 'unseated' as the scroll claims?"
"No," Li Yuan said, voice low and lethal. "We propose that you remember who rules this court."
Gasps echoed.
Rui remained still, his expression unreadable. But inside, something shifted. The words Li Yuan spoke weren't just protection anymore—they were power. Shared. Given freely.
"Control me," Rui said, turning his gaze on the council, "and the prophecy will devour you."
"Stand beside me," he continued, "and we will rewrite what fate dares to whisper."
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
The chamber went still.
Then, slowly, Minister Zhen—the oldest among them—rose from his seat. "I saw that same scroll in my youth," he said, voice raspy. "I was told it was myth. But myth and truth often wear the same skin."
He looked at Rui, then at Li Yuan. "I will not raise my hand against what the gods have placed in our path. If this is destiny, then so be it."
One by one, the rest followed—some reluctantly, some grim-faced—but the resistance cracked. Not fully, but enough.
When the meeting adjourned, the halls felt heavier than before. The ministers filed out like ghosts, and Rui remained at the threshold, watching them go.
Li Yuan came to his side. "That was dangerous."
"So is pretending the storm won't come," Rui replied.
Their shoulders brushed. The tension between them was still there, but no longer brittle. It had begun to thrum with something else—an understanding forged in fire.
"You stepped forward today," Li Yuan said. "You didn't let me shield you."
"I don't want to be shielded," Rui whispered. "I want to fight beside you."
Li Yuan's throat worked, as if words lodged there refused to come out. Instead, he reached out and gently took Rui's hand.
For a long moment, Rui didn't pull away.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the far distance, though the skies remained clear.
But in Rui's chest, the storm had already begun.