We entered Jīn Lóng through the merchant gate, unannounced.
No titles. No crests. No fanfare.
Only the weight of silk-wrapped crates, the soft creak of cart wheels, and a silence more suffocating than war drums. The sun gleamed off the white tiles of the Southern capital, blinding — as if the entire city had been built to reflect, not receive.
"Even the shadows here are polished," Liao Yun murmured.
They knew we had arrived. We had not spoken our names, but their silence was too perfect. Streets cleared for us before we passed. Gatekeepers stepped aside without glancing at our papers.
Wu Jin's seal had done its work.
But the city did not welcome us. It tolerated us.
Inside Jīn Lóng, the world was too golden, too bright — like a blade dipped in honey. The markets overflowed with foreign goods, the courtyards bloomed with trained laughter, the air tasted of incense and sugar. But beneath it all lay tension — unspoken, coiled, waiting.
I could feel it against my skin. Every step forward was permission borrowed from someone unseen.
"They expect peace," I said, under my breath.
"They expect performance," Liao Yun corrected. "They want to see if you remember your lines."
We reached the palace by dusk.
White stone, gold trim, dragon spires — each gate carved with ancient victories, each tile too clean to be real. This was not architecture. It was theatre.
A eunuch in green received us without speaking our names. He bowed low, his face powdered bone-white, and gestured toward the inner court.
"The envoy's arrival is known. You are asked to rest. You will be summoned tomorrow, before dusk."
I gave the faintest nod.
He added, without turning his head, "Her Highness, Princess Lianhua, will host the banquet."
Liao Yun's expression didn't flicker. Mine did.
Of course it was her.
She had seen me only weeks ago — after the northern battle, before Ling An consumed itself in blood and fire. She had come quietly, walking into my tent like the war outside did not exist. She had smiled then, speaking of peace with such perfect clarity it chilled the room.
"Ten years," she had said. "No campaigns. No raids. You rebuild the North. We tend the South. You purge your traitors. We bury ours. It's what we all want — isn't it?"
I had not answered then.
Now, I was here to answer in full.
But peace was never without cost.
And Wu Jin's quiet note — hidden beneath a silver coin days before we left — had made that cost clear:
"One prisoner. Alive. Before the treaty is signed. Or the supplies vanish next winter."
A name was given. A noble condemned to death in the dungeons beneath Jīn Lóng. Accused of treason. Forgotten by the court. But not by Wu Jin.
My true task was buried beneath scrolls of diplomacy.
I would shake hands with the South.
And then I would steal something from beneath their throne.
That night, in the guest quarters, no servants lingered. The rice was already hot. The wine already poured. The jasmine petals perfectly arranged.
"This city is a mouth," Liao Yun said, pacing. "And we're already past the teeth."
I nodded, but said nothing. My mind was elsewhere — on Lianhua.
What did she know?
Why had she offered ten years?
And why did she host the banquet herself?
She had not aged since I last saw her. That was the most terrifying part. She had grown sharper, not older. Her voice more poised. Her words more hollow. Every syllable now felt pre-cut, lacquered, polished.
She would smile tomorrow.
She would ask after my health.
And behind every word, she would measure.
My breathing slowed.
"Liao Yun," I said at last. "Tomorrow, I want three maps. Palace layout. Guard rotations. And the name of the scribe in charge of dungeon records."
His head tilted slightly. "Even before the wine is poured?"
"We're already behind."
He nodded once and vanished into the corridor.
I walked alone to the garden balcony.
The night in Jīn Lóng was too still. Even the wind dared not speak.
Somewhere below, beneath layers of lacquer and marble, the man Wu Jin wanted freed still lived — or so I had to believe.
And above, in silk robes and silver hairpins, my sister prepared her welcome.
I looked up at the stars.
"Let her test me," I whispered. "Let them all."
Because beneath my skin, the thing I had carried since the valley stirred again.
Not in anger.
In hunger.