The official edict arrived at dawn.
Sealed in red lacquer, the dragon stamp still warm to the touch. I unrolled it with steady hands, though my throat tightened at every syllable. The words were polite, formal, laced in courtly jade—but the meaning bit down like iron.
The Lord Protector commands the Fourth Prince to depart immediately to the capital of the Southern Kingdom, Jīn Lóng, and serve as imperial envoy in the coming peace negotiations.
I stood in the half-light of my hall in Nanyang, letting the silence grow.
Liao Yun said nothing, but I could feel his gaze tracking every flicker of my expression. Shen Yue waited by the doorway, one hand loosely around her sword hilt, unreadable. Han Qing's brows furrowed.
It had come to pass. Wu Jin had made his move. The grain, silver, and lumber that arrived in quiet caravans two nights ago — so well-timed, so conveniently anonymous — had not been a gift. They were the price paid in advance. And now, I owed.
I turned to them all.
"Shen Yue. Han Qing. Nanyang is yours to hold. Keep the streets quiet. Execute dissent swiftly, but do not let the city bleed more than it already has."
They nodded, no questions asked. Shen Yue, sharp-eyed and silent. Han Qing, jaw clenched with soldier's duty.
"To the South," I said next. "Liao Yun rides with me."
He bowed. "I already have the maps drawn."
We departed within the hour, a column of two hundred guards riding light and swift. The road curved southward, wide enough for five carts but flanked by pines that whispered even when no wind passed. My banner fluttered behind me: black silk on silver poles, the tiger-and-serpent sigil faded from battle ash and sun.
For the first few days, the skies stayed clear. Villagers watched us from afar. The fields grew thinner, the accents rougher. And the tension thickened with every mile. Even in peace, the South carried the taste of old blood.
One evening, as dusk bled into the hills, Liao Yun and I sat in a quiet grove. The others were tending to the horses, cooking plain rice, sharpening blades.
He drank from his flask, then said softly, "Wu Kang's sabotage in Nanyang failed, but not without cost. We've traced two of his agents south. They've gone silent. Probably hunting for new cracks."
"And Wu Ling?" I asked.
"She's been quiet. Too quiet. Her temple quarters haven't seen a visitor in days, and yet the incense burns through the night. Monks come and go like shadows."
I stared into the fire. "Whatever she's done… the thing she gave him, or let into him, it's not dormant. It's feeding."
"You mean the same way yours feeds?"
I said nothing.
Liao Yun exhaled. "Wu Jin frightens me more. Because he doesn't need rituals or horror. He just needs opportunity. And we've given him one."
"I know." My voice was low. "But we need him. For now."
He nodded slowly. "And when the time comes…?"
"I'll pay what's owed."
We sat in silence for some time after that. Until a whistle snapped through the trees.
A thud.
Guards shouted.
Steel rang as I turned, my hand on my blade — but no threat had emerged. Instead, a single arrow stuck in the bark of a pine tree, vibrating slightly. There was no note, only parchment wrapped around the shaft, sealed with wax.
Liao Yun peeled it free, opened it slowly.
His lips moved as he read, and then stopped.
"What is it?"
He passed it to me.
Ink the color of dried blood, words like thorns coiled into verse.
"The envoy rides with silk and crown,
But fire waits in Jīn Lóng
The serpent drinks the tiger's breath,
And peace shall wear the mask of death.
When golden ink seals foreign land,
The Fourth shall die by Southern hand."
The wind stirred the trees again. This time it felt colder.
"Poetry," Liao Yun said dryly. "Old-fashioned. But clear."
"Wu Kang?"
"Perhaps. But too refined. This reeks of palace hands. Possibly Wu Ling. Or someone worse."
I let the scroll roll back into itself. My fingers trembled only slightly.
"They want me dead the moment peace is declared."
Liao Yun nodded. "A treaty penned in your blood."
I looked up at the moonless sky. Somewhere, far ahead, the city of Jīn Lóng rose in gold and lacquer and old grudges. A place I had once studied in maps, never thinking I'd stand in its courtyards as an envoy—or a corpse.
Behind me, soldiers murmured. Horses snorted softly. The world moved forward. It always did.
And deep within me, the cold thing stirred again, amused.
Let them try.
Let them think peace was a stage they controlled.
I had read the lines they wrote in blood and fire. But I had begun to write my own. And no matter how the verses ended, mine would not die quietly.