They reached the palace before dawn, when the air was still cold, holding its breath between night and morning.
Torches lined the inner court, their flames thin and restless under the wind. Shadows clung to the eaves like they knew they were living on borrowed time.
Yaozu stood waiting near the Emperor's private wing, arms loose at his sides, but there was nothing relaxed about the man who'd carved his name into silence itself.
"The cellars are ready," he reported softly, eyes flicking to the torn edge of Xinying's sleeve, the faint smear of someone else's blood across Yizhen's jaw. "Two lived long enough to be useful. The third didn't."
Xinying barely slowed as they passed him, voice cool as a winter stream. "Two will talk. They always do."
Yizhen didn't disagree. He only followed her through the outer halls like he owned them—which, in his way, he did.
The doors to the imperial chambers opened before they reached them.
