Her hand was already on Longzi's sleeve when I turned.
She had a badge crooked at her throat, her hair was half-torn free, and her breath was loud enough to draw every eye in the music garden.
Xiaoyun arrived like a rumor that had grown legs. She reached higher, fingers finding purchase where cloth met muscle.
"General," she blurted, words spilling too fast to choose. "You promised—after my brother—"
Two junior ministers leaned forward as one, pretending to admire a frost branch while their ears climbed the air. A matron with lacquered nails stalled mid-step. Even the crow in the cypress cocked one eye.
Longzi didn't tear free of her grasp. His jaw was tight, his shoulders were set, and he stood the way men stand when training has hammered reflexes into obedience: do not shove the grieving; do not let a scene become an accusation you can't outrun.
"Release him," I told her.
