The palace gardens were quieter the morning after the treaty was revised — too quiet for a city that had just celebrated peace.
The King did not come to breakfast.
Not immediately.
When he did, his entrance thundered.
Silks rustled. Guards marched. His brows were storm clouds drawn low. He did not bow. Did not greet. He strode through the great hall as though the earth owed him its spine.
"You mock the will of kings," he said.
I remained seated.
Tea in hand. Pulse steady.
He stopped a few steps away, the hem of his robe twitching with rage. "You signed peace under Heaven's witness. And yet overnight, my council erupts with scandal. My brother is forced to step down. My generals quarrel over ledgers. My ships are searched without warrant. Do you take me for a fool, Wu An?"
"No," I said. "I take you for a man who forgot that ink is not iron."
His jaw trembled. "You twist words like your father."
I offered no rebuttal.
He exhaled slowly, forcing calm. "This will not stand. I will present new terms. You will accept them — and leave with your dignity intact."
"Present them," I said. "I will consider."
He threw a scroll onto the table. I opened it slowly.
New tariffs, harsher than before. A doubled tribute over five years. Merchant passage limited to three southern ports, with northern agents forbidden to operate without direct southern supervision. The final clause: any dispute shall be resolved solely by the Southern Council, without intervention from the court in Ling An.
"You think I will bring these back to the Emperor?" I asked.
The King grinned with his teeth, not his eyes. "You'll bring back what you're told to. Your kingdom is fractured. Your father grows old. Your armies are stretched thin across three fronts. You're clever, Prince Wu An, but even clever men drown in politics."
I reached into my robe and pulled out a scroll of my own.
"No," I said. "We sign these terms instead."
He scoffed. "I have no need for your ink."
I unrolled the scroll across the lacquered table. "No tariffs. No restrictions on northern merchants. A shared military outpost in the neutral zone near Bei Ling. Agricultural knowledge and medicinal texts exchanged in annual council. And," I paused, letting the words settle, "recognition that the court in Ling An remains the rightful central court of the Kingdom of Liang — and that your title is to be 'Southern Guardian,' not King."
His hand slammed the table. "You dare—!"
"I do more than dare," I said, rising to meet his gaze. "You see, Your Majesty, I came not to beg for peace, but to expose your rot. Your brother's corruption. Your harvest failures. Your ghost taxes. I have the documents, the witnesses, the names. And if you do not sign these terms, I will distribute them to every noble court in Liang — north and south."
He was quiet now.
I stepped closer. "You think the North is weak. But the North still commands 300,000 soldiers. And we do not need to invade to bring you down. We only need to show your people that you are no longer fit to wear the silk of kings."
Lianhua, silent until now, stepped forward. "Enough," she said. "Both of you."
The King turned, his fury now mixed with disbelief. "You side with him?"
"I side with Liang," she replied. "And this… this is no longer a game you can win by shouting."
His lips parted to respond, but no words came. He looked smaller now. Caged in his own hall.
I rolled up the scroll and placed it in front of him. "You have until nightfall."
By dusk, he signed.
No ceremony. No trumpets. Just a trembling signature sealed in wax and silence.
That night, we made camp in the hills beyond the city. The lanterns were dimmed. The guards rotated in silence.
Liao Yun unfurled another map across the traveling table.
"The Southern King will send riders within the week," he said. "He'll claim we stole state property. Maybe even accuse us of abducting a royal. But the moment he does, his legitimacy crumbles. We have the documents — and Wu Shuang."
"She isn't leverage yet," I said.
"She will be. Especially if we find out what they did to her all these years."
I looked toward her tent.
She had remained silent since departure. Ate little. Slept less. But she studied everyone with quiet, sharpened eyes — as if weighing the cost of being forgotten for so long.
"What if she won't speak?" I asked.
Liao Yun answered without looking up. "Then we make others speak instead."
By the second night, word had reached us: the Southern Council had dissolved emergency powers. The King had shut himself in his throne room. Lianhua had made no public appearance.
The revised treaty was now void.
There would be no return to peace.
Only waiting.
On the third day, I entered Wu Shuang's tent.
She sat in silence, hands folded, the veil still covering most of her face. I sat across from her, placing a scroll on the floor between us.
"These are the names of the men who erased you."
No reaction.
"I intend to erase them in turn."
Still no reply.
I leaned in.
"My name was nearly struck from the records once. For speaking the wrong truth. For protecting the wrong mother. You understand what that means — don't you?"
A pause.
Then, finally, a single word:
"Yes."
I waited, but she said nothing more.
That was enough.
I stood. "Tomorrow, we arrive in Nanyang. The South will come for us. The North will watch."
I turned back only once before leaving.
She had lifted the veil.
And in her eyes — I saw not grief.
But strategy.