Wu Kang no longer attended council.
When he was seen, it was at night, his blade unsheathed, the red of wine staining his hands as if blood had become his only ink. Servants whispered that the Eastern Palace was haunted—not by spirits, but by his grief. Screams rang through the corridors, cut short, and in the mornings, the floors were scrubbed raw with lime.
The ministers asked the Lord Protector to restrain him. The Lord Protector gave no reply. Silence was the only leash left.
And so the city turned its eyes to me.
Preparations for the wedding had begun in earnest. The air was thick with dye smoke, crimson silks stretched from beams, musicians practicing songs they knew might never be played.
But everywhere, unease. Markets closed early. Monks whispered omens in courtyards. In the temples, incense curled into spirals instead of straight lines, and the people muttered that Heaven had already turned its back on this marriage.
It was not fear of Shen Yue. It was fear of me.
She came to me one evening when the hall was quiet, her steps light as water on stone. No veil, no paint, no armor of ceremony.
"Every servant stares when I pass," she said, settling across from me. "They whisper that I am a shadow come to claim their prince."
"They whisper worse of me," I answered.
Her lips did not curve, but her eyes softened. "Then perhaps we are matched."
We sat without speaking for a time. The candle flame bent toward me, its light tilting unnaturally. She noticed, but did not flinch.
"You do not ask me if I want this," she said at last.
"I do not," I replied. "Because I already know."
She tilted her head. "And what do you know?"
"That you will not yield. That you will not break. That is all I require."
The silence under my ribs stirred. Her gaze did not leave mine, steady as a drawn bow.
"This is not love," she said.
"No," I agreed. "It is something stronger."
For the first time, her lips curved—not in warmth, but in recognition.
The ministers pressed their doubts daily. "Too soon," they warned. "Too dangerous." They whispered of poison, of curses, of Heaven's disfavor.
I let them whisper. Shen Yue did too.
When we spoke again, she poured the wine herself, though neither of us drank.
"They fear us," she said, "because we do not wait to be chosen."
"They fear us," I said, "because they cannot tell if the silence serves us—or if we serve it."
Her hand brushed mine as she set the cup down. Her skin was cold, but the touch lingered like steel drawn from water.
Wu Jin came once, uninvited, his robe uncreased, his eyes too sharp to be called brotherly.
"You think marriage will calm the city," he said. "Perhaps. But you forget: peace draws more daggers than war. Every hand will reach for the cup. Every smile will hide a blade. You invite your death to sit at the table."
"Then let it sit," I said.
He studied Shen Yue. "And you, sister-to-be? You will drink, knowing?"
She did not lower her eyes. "If it is poisoned, I will drink. If it is clean, I will drink. Either way, I stand."
Wu Jin's smile was faint, unreadable. "Then perhaps you are made for him after all."
When he left, the air felt lighter, but the silence in my chest pressed closer.
As the week bled toward the ceremony, the city grew stranger.
Three times the bridal veil was delivered, and three times it was torn before reaching the hall. The cook claimed the wedding rice soured overnight, though it had been sealed in iron jars. Twice the wedding wine spilled itself across the floor, staining stone as dark as blood.
The people whispered that Wu Ling's ghost lingered, jealous and unappeased.
But in Shen Yue's eyes, I saw no fear. Only resolve.
On the final night before offerings, she came again.
"You know he will not stay silent," she said. She did not name Wu Kang, but we both heard his name in the air.
"I know."
"And still you do not strike first."
"Not yet."
She looked at me for a long time. "You frighten them because you do not rage. Because you do not cry. Because you do not even hate. You only… wait."
Her voice lowered. "Do you frighten me too?"
The silence under my ribs stirred. I let it pass through me before I spoke.
"No. You understand me."
Her breath caught, not from fear, but from something deeper—recognition, perhaps, or the acceptance of a path she had already chosen.
"Then tomorrow," she said, "we walk into the fire together."
I nodded.
The candle bent once more, its flame tilting toward me. She watched it, but this time, she did not look away.
In the Eastern Palace, Wu Kang sharpened his blade until the whetstone cracked.
One. Two. Three.
And the bells tolled once in the night, carrying across the roofs of the northern capital.
No one said for whom.