The palace was quieter than it had been in years.
Mingyu walked its corridors in the hour before dawn, when servants whispered instead of spoke loudly and the stone floors held the chill of night.
Lanterns burned low, brass hooks glinting where Longzi had already seen to the fittings. Even the bells above the galleries hung with new cords, their clappers tested by soldiers who understood now that mistakes in rope could kill.
Everything looked in order.
At least, on the surface.
He paused beneath the cypress eaves, watching breath mist from the guards who straightened when they saw him. They bowed low. He inclined his head, no more, then continued on.
Order had never been the problem.
His wife was too ruthless for disorder to linger for long. She had shifted pieces until every gap was covered. Yaozu in shadow, Deming at her side, Yizhen wherever walls turned soft, and now Longzi where Mingyu himself was weakest.
