Ren didn't beg.
That would have been easier. Beggars gave you something to cut.
Instead, he knelt with his wrists roped and his spine too straight for a merchant caught mid-flight.
The priest hunched beside him, beads clicking like bad teeth. The cart sat open, coin glinting as if it wanted to hire its way out of consequence.
"Bind the ox to the post," I told Deming. "If any hand touches that yoke without my word, break the wrist attached to it."
He acknowledged with a low grunt and set two men where wheels and greed usually met.
I reached for one of the seals, turned it under my thumb. Neat. Smug. Numbers that thought they had already won their argument with the world.
"Ren," I began, light as steam. "You wrote your own noose beautifully."
He kept his eyes on the floor. "I wrote invoices, Empress. The rope is yours."
"Offerings," the priest tried again, voice wet. "Your Majesty offends Heaven—"
