The winds in Nanyang had begun to change.
Not the monsoon winds of the south, nor the mountain gales from the north — but something quieter. The kind that slipped through shutter cracks and under boots. The kind that preceded executions.
It had been only a few weeks since we returned from the Southern Kingdom. No celebrations. No fanfare. Just fire-damaged scrolls, empty ledgers, and half-truths waiting to rot beneath the surface.
But Wu Jin kept his word.
His messengers came at night. They asked no questions about my methods, made no objections to my soldiers walking court halls. They brought what we needed — food shipments, updated maps, court correspondence — and one quiet demand:
Return Wu Shuang. Alive. No substitutes.
That demand sat heavier than any threat.
Wu Shuang had spoken little since we returned. But she had observed everything.
She walked the palace halls without veil or crown, dressed plainly, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. When she passed, servants fell silent. Even officers looked away. Not out of fear — but because something in her gaze accused them of forgetting.
"This city's bones are cleaner than I expected," she said one morning, standing beneath the eastern veranda.
I glanced toward the soldiers drilling in the courtyard. "Because I burned what wouldn't scrub clean."
She said nothing. But the corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile.
Inside the old war chamber, Liao Yun rolled open a fresh map.
"Trade routes into the central provinces remain disrupted," he said. "Southern loyalists are scattering, but not gone. One of the dock masters vanished yesterday. Burned records behind him."
Shen Yue added, "And the temple fires? Three now. All minor shrines, all burned clean through, altars smashed, but nothing stolen."
"Message or ritual?" I asked.
"Maybe both," he replied. "Or maybe something worse. The locals are drawing spirals in chalk around their homes."
Not for blessing. For protection.
From what, no one would say.
Han Qing entered mid-report, his armor freshly oiled, a scroll in hand.
"A dispatch from Ling An," he said, offering it without ceremony. "Sealed by the Imperial mark."
The dragon seal. The Emperor's hand. Not the Lord Protector's.
I opened it.
The Lord Protector is unwell.
The Emperor requests all princes return to court.
Do not delay.
Nothing more. No title. No warmth. Just command.
I dismissed the others and remained in the hall with Han Qing.
"You'll take command here," I told him. "If I don't return by winter solstice, burn the southern contracts, seal the city, and cut ties with the capital."
Han Qing frowned. "Do you expect betrayal?"
"I expect it already happened."
Before we left, Wu Jin's personal courier arrived. A man built like a reed — long-limbed, soft-voiced, and absolutely silent until spoken to.
He bowed to me but addressed Wu Shuang.
"The Second Prince sends his protection. You will ride in the center carriage. No retinue. No delay. He awaits your presence at court."
She merely nodded and walked past him, her steps noiseless as falling snow.
"Does she trust him?" Shen Yue asked afterward.
"No," I said. "She remembers too much for that."
We departed Nanyang under clouded skies. The road north was still wet from a late storm, and the trees leaned like they were listening.
The villages had changed. Red prayer slips were no longer nailed to doors. In their place: black threads, spirals drawn in ash, talismans shaped like knots rather than blades.
At one village gate, a child held out a lotus flower dyed entirely black. He offered it to Wu Shuang without speaking.
She took it.
And didn't let go of it until nightfall.
On the fourth day, Liao Yun rode up beside me.
"We've intercepted word from Ling An. The Protector hasn't been seen in over a week. Wu Kang is calling emergency sessions without the Emperor's seal. And Wu Ling—"
He hesitated.
"She's been seen entering the imperial altars. The ones sealed since your mother's death."
My grip on the reins tightened.
"Does she walk alone?" I asked.
"No. The old monk is always with her. The one with the bone beads."
The shadows behind my ribs stirred, faint but present.
We reached Ling An at twilight. The city glowed like a corpse washed clean for burial — white stone, gold towers, red lanterns in neat rows. But the smell of incense was too strong. Too fresh.
They were hiding something.
The gates opened. No one bowed.
Inside, I left Wu Shuang in secured quarters and entered the palace alone.
The corridors were cold, despite the brazier fires. I passed generals who looked away too quickly. Ministers who greeted me with rehearsed warmth. Servants who spoke to me like I was already dead.
Wu Kang stood in the eastern gallery, speaking with General Yi. He did not turn.
Wu Jin was nowhere to be seen.
Wu Ling passed along the colonnade in crimson, a veil over her eyes. Her steps made no sound. The monk followed behind her, rosary dragging faintly across the stone.
She paused when she saw me. Bowed her head — not in respect, but in acknowledgment. A player recognizing another.
The throne room had not changed.
Gold dragons coiled around red pillars. The ceiling painted with stars, half-faded. The dragon throne at the far end.
The Emperor sat beneath it, spine straight, eyes unreadable.
The seat beside him — my father's — stood empty.
The court watched me enter like crows on a tree.
A eunuch stepped forward.
"Prince Wu An, summoned by His Imperial Majesty."
I stepped across the jade floor.
Then —
From behind the silk curtain came a voice.
Soft. Measured. Matriarchal.
"Come closer, child."
The room stilled.
The curtain was drawn aside.
And the Empress Dowager stepped forward.
Draped in deep violet, her silver hair bound in a crown of jade and iron. Her eyes — sharp as needles — found mine.
She had not been seen in court in over five years. Rumor claimed her too old, too frail. Some whispered she was already dead.
But here she stood.
Alive. Silent. Watching me.
She smiled.
And said:
"We've been expecting you."