The Hall of Vermilion Echoes had no musicians that morning.
The storm had arrived not with thunder, but with soft footsteps and bowed heads. A closed court had been summoned before the ninth bell—too early for dignity, too late to silence the rumors.
Li Ziyan stood in the center of the jade-tiled floor, her robes immaculate, violet silk wrapped like a second skin. Her hair was bound high in the court's formal knot. Her breath was steady. Only her fingers trembled once—then stilled.
Above her, the Emperor sat in full regalia, his dragon-embroidered sleeves motionless atop the armrests of his jade throne. The Empress sat beside him, half-veiled behind a pale fan, her expression unreadable. Around them stood selected ministers and noble patriarchs—those with sons, names, or pride on the line.
Among them, near the back, stood Minister Li.
He did not speak. He did not shift. But his gaze never left his daughter.
The chamber echoed faintly as Zhang Jinrui stepped forward, flanked by two palace guards.
His cloak was ash-dusted, his boots travel-worn. But his voice, when he spoke, carried without effort.
"I followed them. From the banquet hall to the guest wing. I saw them enter Lady Ziyan's chamber with silk cloth, blades, and wine laced with sleeping powder. They believed her defenseless. They were wrong."
A rustle swept the assembly.
One of the noble fathers, Lord Lu—round-faced and red-eyed—stepped forward.
"General Zhang," he said stiffly, "you stand as a man of war. Surely you know that court affairs require more delicacy than battlefield charges. My son may have acted poorly—but this—this was an entrapment. A humiliation staged by a minor official to disgrace houses older than her name!"
Ziyan did not look at him. She looked only at the Emperor.
"I defended myself against masked intruders," she said. "Not nobles. Not sons. Criminals. If their names bring shame, then it is not my doing."
Gasps followed her words. The Empress's fan paused mid-sweep.
The Emperor said nothing.
But Zhang Jinrui's voice cut through the air like a drawn blade.
"Your sons entered her chamber with no summons. With weapons. I gave no testimony of titles—only of action. If the court cannot tell the difference, then perhaps the rot runs deeper than the roots."
Another noble stepped forward. "And what stake do you have in this, General? You are no civil judge. You are not bound to her command. Why defend her at all?"
Jinrui met the man's eyes without blinking.
"Because I've seen women buried for less. And I've seen empires fall because they looked away."
In the shadows, Minister Li's fingers tapped once against his sleeve—no more than a breath.
Lord Lu turned again to the Emperor. "Your Majesty, we beg you to consider the gravity of this. The court cannot allow vengeance disguised as virtue. Let this be handled quietly, and—"
The Emperor raised one finger.
Silence fell like frost.
"The court," he said slowly, "has become too fond of its own reflection. It forgets that titles do not cleanse intention. And bloodlines do not forgive trespass."
He turned his gaze to Ziyan.
"Li Ziyan. You have shown cunning. And restraint. And perhaps—too much foresight."
He leaned back.
"You will remain in your post. The Eastern Bureau shall continue under your supervision. As for the sons of Lords Lu, Jian, and Han—"
His gaze shifted to the noble fathers.
"—they will be stripped of their ceremonial ranks. They will serve one year in the Temple of Evening Wind, in silence and contemplation. Your households will pay for their restoration thereafter—if they earn it."
The nobles stiffened but did not protest.
Only the Empress tilted her head, her voice soft behind the fan.
"So many titles lost to one night. Perhaps we should award her one to balance the scale?"
Ziyan bowed deeply. "Titles carry weight, Your Majesty. I prefer mine light, while I still learn to stand."
There was a flicker in the Emperor's eyes. Almost a smile.
Then, with a wave of his sleeve, the court was dismissed.
Outside the chamber, the air tasted of iron and plum blossoms. Courtiers stepped away as Ziyan passed, some with wary respect, others with hatred thick in their eyes.
Zhang Jinrui followed without ceremony.
"They'll plot again," he said calmly. "But next time, not with blades. With ink. With marriage offers. With broken allies."
Ziyan's steps slowed. "And you?"
He looked at her.
"I still don't trust you," he said. "But I trust what your enemies fear."
She said nothing.
Behind them, Minister Li lingered beneath the eaves. His face betrayed nothing. But his eyes had not left her once.
At the teahouse that evening, Wei leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"You've kicked a nest of hornets," he said.
"Good," Ziyan replied. "Let them sting each other first."
Inside, Lianhua poured tea with silent elegance. Li Qiang stood at the window, sharpening a dagger without looking.
Wen Yufei sat stiffly in a corner, rolling a scroll between nervous fingers.
Then he spoke.
"I found this. On your desk. But it wasn't there this morning."
He handed Ziyan a narrow piece of parchment—folded in the style of palace orders, sealed with wax she did not recognize.
Ziyan opened it.
The message was written in her cipher.
But it was not her hand.
"He was not the first. Zhao was not the last. The next will fall at the Mid-Spring Offering."
Her pulse stilled.
Lianhua rose. "A warning?"
"No," Ziyan said. "A schedule."
The phoenix mark beneath her sleeve flared once—no whisper, no vision. Just heat.
As if something behind the veil was stirring again.
Watching.
Waiting.