"What?" Lianhua exclaimed, her voice sharp enough to startle a bird from the window ledge. "You've been assigned the Spring Offering Festival?"
Ziyan didn't look up from the scroll she was tying shut. Her fingers moved with care, but her brow remained furrowed.
"The Empress has formally requested it," she replied.
Lianhua crossed the room in two steps. "Requested or commanded? You know what this means, don't you? That ceremony isn't just incense and hymns. It's a political battlefield dressed in silk. Are you sure she's not involved in the Grand Commandant's death?"
Ziyan's hands paused. "No," she said quietly. "But I do know she was involved."
She turned, eyes distant. "She didn't wield the blade, but she set the table."
Before Lianhua could reply, a small voice interrupted them.
Lian'er had been quietly circling the room, humming to herself as she rearranged the tea cups into strange shapes. Now she climbed into Ziyan's lap without warning, folding her knees and resting her chin on Ziyan's shoulder.
"Ziyan," she said, "do you have a library now?"
Ziyan blinked. "A small one, yes."
Lian'er brightened. "So that means you can read all the books you never got to before? The ones with things like walking trees and talking fire?"
Ziyan smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from the girl's cheek. "Yes. Even those."
"Good." Lian'er yawned. "Books remember things better than people."
She slid off and wandered to the window, staring out at the grey sky with an absent murmur.
Lianhua watched her carefully. "She's been quieter since Nan Shu. Not afraid. Just… thinner. Like her thoughts drift away before she can hold them."
Ziyan stood. "She's healing. Whatever Zhao summoned didn't stay in her—it passed through. She's still Lian'er."
"And you trust her?"
Ziyan met her gaze. "Absolutely. She isn't dangerous. Just touched by something the rest of us were lucky to avoid."
The next morning, Ziyan wandered the ceremonial routes within the palace gardens, escorted by two eunuchs and Wen Yufei, who trailed behind with a list of names to be confirmed for the offering.
They passed through a forgotten corridor lined with worn plaques—ancestral honors of those long gone. The route was beautiful, but narrow. Perfect for secrecy.
"This passage isn't on the official route," Ziyan said.
Wen Yufei checked the map again. "It was removed two years ago. The records say 'structural decay,' but there are no repairs noted."
Ziyan knelt near a small stone marker beside a shrine, brushing away moss to reveal faint etchings.
"Grand Commandant Zhao's seal was inscribed here," she murmured. "This shrine was his offering point."
Yufei leaned in. "But it's not registered anymore."
"No," Ziyan said. "Because someone made sure it was forgotten."
Just then, a faint breeze stirred through the narrow corridor—cold and damp despite the spring sun. From behind her, Lian'er peeked into the passage, having followed unnoticed. She whispered, "This place remembers. Even if no one else does."
That afternoon, Ziyan sent a sealed message requesting an audience with the Empress. The reply came swiftly: Come. But come alone.
The Pavilion of Plum Silk was silent when she arrived, its curtains drawn and incense burning low.
The Empress sat alone, weaving golden thread through ceremonial banners, her fingers steady.
"You've begun your preparations," she said without looking up.
"I have questions," Ziyan replied, bowing.
"You always do."
Ziyan stepped forward. "Why me? Why ask someone the court still whispers about to lead the most sacred ritual of the spring season?"
The Empress set her needle aside.
"Because you're the only one who understands what's really at stake. You've seen the rot beneath our altar cloths. You've walked among people the court forgets. That makes you dangerous—but also useful."
"And Zhao?"
The Empress exhaled slowly. "He began something he couldn't end. He wanted the Empire purged of weakness—through force. He dabbled in rites forbidden for generations."
Ziyan's voice lowered. "And you let him."
"I observed. And when he overreached, I stepped back and let gravity do the rest."
Ziyan looked down. "You speak like a scholar, not a ruler."
"I'm both," the Empress replied. "And a woman. We learn early how to survive without always striking first."
She stood then, approaching Ziyan.
"You've inherited his consequences, whether you wanted them or not. That little girl—Lian'er—carries traces of what he summoned. Even if it's gone, some things don't fully leave."
"She's innocent," Ziyan said quickly.
"I never said she wasn't," the Empress replied. "But innocence attracts attention. Especially from things that shouldn't have eyes."
Ziyan stared at her. "What exactly is this Offering for?"
The Empress smiled faintly. "To bless the land. And to bind the cracks in what's left of our foundation. Spiritually. Politically."
"And to hide what Zhao opened?"
"To smother it in silk," she said. "If we're lucky."
Ziyan left the pavilion with thoughts like knives.
As she stepped out into the corridor, she found Zhang Jinrui waiting by a pillar, arms crossed.
"You were listening," she said flatly.
"I was standing," he said. "The pavilion echoes."
Ziyan met his eyes. "You knew about Zhao's ritual."
"I suspected," he said. "I saw what it did to the land near Linjiang. Cattle born with second mouths. Priests who forgot their own names."
"Why didn't you stop it?"
"Because I wasn't strong enough," he said. "And because my orders were to observe. From someone above even the Empress."
Ziyan's eyes narrowed. "There's someone above her?"
"Not in title," he replied. "But in shadow."
He handed her a small piece of folded silk. Inside was a name, written in coded script.
Lord Yu—Southern Council. Banished by Zhao months before his death.
"He was exiled quietly," Zhang said. "But I think he's still pulling strings. And he may appear at the Spring Offering."
"Why help me?" Ziyan asked quietly.
He looked away. "Because I believe in the Empire. And because you're not asking for power. You're asking for truth. That makes you dangerous, too."
That evening, back at the teahouse, Ziyan found Lian'er seated on the floor, holding a painted fan.
"Do you like this?" the girl asked. "I found it in your room."
Ziyan took it, turning it over. It was an old court fan—one from Zhao's era. On the inside, in faint ink, was a poem:
Let fire rise before the flood. Let ash seal what wind could not.
Ziyan's fingers curled around it.
Another clue.
Another warning.
Lian'er looked up at her. "Are you scared?"
Ziyan crouched and hugged her gently. "Yes. But not of you."