The summons came before sunrise — a lacquered token from her family's estate, inked with her father's seal. Ziyan stared at it for a long moment, unmoving, until Lianhua set a hand on her shoulder.
"You don't have to go," she said gently.
"I do," Ziyan replied. "He made sure of it."
The Li family's ancestral residence sprawled across a quiet district south of the inner court, a place of carved beams and meticulously kept gardens. But to Ziyan, it still stank of mothballs, bitterness, and a mother's lingering ghost. When the gates creaked open, the steward bowed low, yet his gaze swept over her as if surprised she had returned alive.
Her stepmother, Madam Ke, greeted her from the stone courtyard with a smile tight as lacquered nails. The silk of her robes shimmered gold, eyes cold beneath thick powder.
"So," she said, voice syruped with contempt. "The dog finds her way back to the gates she was cast from."
Ziyan bowed stiffly. "Madam Ke."
From behind the lattice, her half-sister Li Yue stepped forward, arms crossed and lips curled in disdain. "Father must be truly desperate. Letting a discarded stray prance back in with a court title? How shameful."
Her younger half-brother, Li Heng, smirked. "I heard they stuck her in some dusty record-keeping position. Fitting. She's always been good at copying others."
The servants didn't hide their sneers. Even the courtyards felt smaller, colder. But Ziyan said nothing — she stood as still as a carved statue, her phoenix mark prickling faintly beneath her sleeve.
Just then, the air shifted. A quiet voice cut through the mockery.
"That's enough."
Minister Li stood at the threshold, robes plain and face unreadable. His gaze moved over his wife, his children — then settled on Ziyan.
"She is an official of Qi now. Ranked above some of her brothers. Show some respect, even if only for the Empire's sake."
The others fell into an uneasy silence.
He turned to Ziyan. "Walk with me."
They passed through the rear garden, where plum blossoms floated in still ponds and koi barely disturbed the surface. The path was quiet, but heavy with years of silence.
"I expected more courtesy," Ziyan said finally, voice low. "Not for myself — but for your station."
"You expected wrong," her father replied. "I raised many children, Ziyan. Several are capable. Some perhaps more than you."
She halted. "Then why bring me back?"
He didn't stop walking. "Because you survived where they wouldn't. And because a tool does not need to be liked — only sharp."
She stepped in front of him. "And honour? Do you still remember what that means?"
He gave her a long, unreadable look. "Honour is for poets and soldiers. I deal in stability. In survival."
Ziyan's hands curled into fists. But he had already turned away.
As she left the residence, the sharp crack of a palace drum echoed down the avenue. A courier in red approached with a scroll.
"To Li Ziyan," he said. "By Imperial Decree — summoned to the Palace Hall of Radiant Ceremony, on the Emperor's order."
She took the scroll in stunned silence. Behind her, the estate doors creaked shut again — as if she had never belonged there at all.
That evening, the Hall of Radiant Ceremony glittered like a dream carved from firelight and jade. Silk banners danced from vaulted beams. Lanterns painted gold shadows across pillars of red lacquer. Officials, nobles, scholars, and generals filled the air with the murmured clink of silver cups.
Ziyan stepped inside flanked by Li Qiang and Lianhua, all clad in the formal robes of their new rank. Though they had earned their positions, it still felt like being dropped into a lake with stone shoes. Every gaze turned toward them — most in judgment, some in curiosity, and a few with grudging respect.
The Emperor sat at the dais, robed in black and white silk threaded with dragons, his expression calm and ageless. The Empress, graceful and pale as moonlight, rested beside him beneath a carved phoenix screen. At their sides were several favored concubines — each stunning, adorned in peacock hues and veiled smiles — watching as carefully as courtiers played chess.
One noble muttered behind a sleeve, "That's the daughter who was cast out… how shameful she's allowed to stand here."
But the Empress leaned forward. "Such poise," she said softly to the Emperor. "The fire didn't break her."
The Emperor nodded once. "Qi needs fire."
As the ceremony began, the trio knelt before the throne. An attendant read aloud their names, accomplishments, and service thus far. Then came the question, issued in an even tone by the Emperor himself:
"As is custom — the Empire shall grant one boon to each of its newest servants. Speak, and be wise."
Li Qiang was first. "If it pleases His Majesty — I ask for permission to review the provincial guard registries for the western front, to better serve Qi's military preparations."
The Emperor raised an eyebrow. "Straight to duty. Granted."
Lianhua stepped forward. "I ask to consult the archives of ritual music and ancestral offerings, to better support the harmony of rites."
The Empress smiled faintly. "Approved."
Then it was Ziyan's turn.
She bowed deeply.
"If Your Majesty permits… I ask for access to the Imperial Temple's prayer records from the past year. That I may study how faith has shaped the will of the people — and what their silences reveal."
The hall fell utterly quiet.
It was a strange request. A bold one. But veiled in language so soft, it passed as loyalty.
The Emperor studied her.
Then nodded.
"Granted. But remember — silence can echo louder than drums."
Ziyan rose, heart pounding. She didn't look at her father. She didn't need to.
He was watching. As were half the court.
And her phoenix mark — quiet all this time — pulsed once, faint and cold.
Something had shifted.
And the banquet had only just begun.