The execution ground was stone older than the city walls, laid by hands who had long since returned to dust. Soldiers formed lines as still as carved idols. Ministers crowded beneath silk canopies, whispering words that smelled only of fear.
At the center knelt the monk. His robe was stripped to gray, his hands bound in red cords. The bone beads at his throat clicked faintly with each breath. He did not bow. He did not plead. He counted.
"One. Two. Three."
The words slithered through the ranks like smoke, leaving unease in their wake. Even the Lord Protector's raised hand faltered for half a heartbeat before he gave the signal. The blade came down.
The monk's head fell, the cord of beads snapping. They scattered across the stone like teeth torn from a skull. The sound echoed longer than it should have.
We three brothers watched from the pavilion above.
Wu Kang's hands shook on the rail until his knuckles paled. His voice rasped. "First Ling, now him. You strip her twice—once in life, once in memory."
"She chose her road," I said. "He only walked it beside her. I merely ended it."
Wu Jin leaned forward, his face unreadable. "The monk's death removes a poison. But poisons leave vacuums. And vacuums are more dangerous than daggers."
Wu Kang turned, his grief raw enough to blister. His hand twitched toward his sword, then faltered. His eyes burned like a pyre without wood.
The day of her funeral followed.
The northern capital should have seen banners of white silk and priests chanting her name into Heaven. Instead, the decree was read: Wu Ling, stripped of her honors, was to be buried not as Empress but as a concubine, disgraced for treason.
The ministers nodded, content that justice had been shown. The people murmured, some in relief, others in unease.
Wu Kang could not abide it.
When the rites were read, his voice split the air like a bowstring. "She was Empress!" he shouted, his armor flashing in the dim sun. "She shared his bed, his throne, his fate. You dishonor not her alone, but the blood that bore her."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Guards shifted, uncertain whether to silence him.
The Lord Protector's face was iron. "Enough. The decree stands."
Wu Kang's eyes shone with fury. For a moment, he looked as if he would draw steel even here, before father and Heaven. Instead, he bowed his head once, sharp as a blade striking stone, and left the funeral ground without waiting for dismissal.
The coffin was lowered without incense, without grandeur. Ministers whispered. The people watched. The air itself felt like ash.
That night, the Lord Protector summoned us into the hall of the North. The air was heavy with smoke and silence. Ministers lined the walls, waiting to weigh what would follow.
His eyes moved from Wu Kang's empty place, to Wu Jin's watchful calm, to me. "One child gone. One monk silenced. The court asks if this family can still hold Liang's roof. Tell me—what answer do I give them?"
I stepped forward. "The people murmur. The South watches. The North hesitates. Liang must be shown the house still stands. Next month, I will take Shen Yue as my wife. The ceremony will bind loyalty, calm unrest, and show the city a future."
The hall rippled. Ministers exchanged startled glances. Some nodded, pleased at the thought of unity, of festivity to erase the stench of funerals. Others frowned, whispering of omens, of haste.
The Lord Protector's gaze narrowed. "Marriage in mourning? A wall built on ash."
"A wall nonetheless," I said. "Better built now than after the rafters collapse."
Wu Jin's lips curved faintly. "A clever move," he murmured. "Weddings soothe where funerals wound. But remember, brother—funerals are for power. Weddings for peace. Confuse the two, and you build graves instead of halls."
The Lord Protector's voice fell heavy. "So be it. If you would take Shen Yue, prepare it. Let Liang see union instead of fracture."
He paused, eyes lingering on me longer than the others. "But know this, son: this marriage binds not only her to you. It binds the silence you carry to the roof of this house. Pray the beams hold."
Wu Kang did not return to the hall that night. But I felt him. His absence was not void but a storm contained.
Wu Jin lingered as the ministers filed out. "Weddings are for peace," he repeated, voice soft, eyes sharp. "But peace can be strangled easier than men think. Be sure the bride reaches the altar, brother. Be sure the wine does not sour."
Then he left me alone.
The monk's ashes had been scattered to the wind, yet by morning faint spirals appeared in the dust of the execution ground. Not drawn by hand, not left by bead. Written only by air.
The silence beneath my ribs stirred. Not eager. Not fearful. Only nearer.