The ministers had gathered outside the throne room before dawn, called together by rumor instead of the Mingyu's will.
They whispered in the outer chamber like a flock of nervous birds. Every robe smelled of incense, every voice carried the tremor of a question none of them dared put into words.
Minister Han, one of their fellow ministers, his body had been seen at the south gate. People had already been talking about how the Empress herself had killed him, slit his through without hesitation.
And by now, the rest of the city knew.
Some said the Empress had acted alone. Others whispered she had gone mad. More practical men, the kind who counted coin before loyalty, simply asked each other whether the Emperor would confirm it—or punish her for it.
Mingyu entered the council hall at a steady pace, his steps unhurried.
