The day before the Spring Offering arrived like the hush before a storm—still, tense, and too quiet to trust.
Ziyan stood in the Hall of Ritual Preparations, surrounded by silk banners, braziers, and stacks of scrolls that should have brought her calm. Lianhua was seated beside a table sorting through ceremonial scripts, while Li Qiang crossed the courtyard outside, reviewing the positions of the guards and the movement of incense bearers.
Everything seemed in order.
Too much so.
The Spring Offering, though draped in elegance and ancient grace, was never meant to be a simple affair. It was both prayer and performance, watched by nobles, ministers, and spirits alike. Every movement, every breath was recorded in temple ink and whispered behind fans.
And Ziyan, placed at its center by the Empress herself, could feel the breath of something darker moving beneath the surface.
"Lianhua," Ziyan called, adjusting the edge of a silk altar cloth. "Has the final sacrificial offering been received yet?"
The older girl stood and wiped her hands. "It should have arrived with the jade priestess delegation this morning. I'll check the ledgers again."
Ziyan nodded, eyes flicking to the red-covered crates being arranged in the main hall. Offerings for the gods: grains, silk, animal figurines, incense, scrolls written by noble hands.
She moved to one of the crates and opened it.
Then froze.
Inside, where there should have been ritual grain and mountain herbs, was rotted black seed—molded, split open, and buzzing faintly with flies.
Her stomach turned.
"Li Qiang!" she called out sharply.
He was beside her in moments, blade hilt in hand. One look into the crate, and his jaw clenched.
"That's not just sabotage," he said. "That's deliberate desecration."
By evening, the preparation hall had been sealed off under the excuse of "blessing and final purification." Lianhua stayed behind to clean and reseal the crates, while Ziyan and Li Qiang returned to the teahouse—grim-faced, careful not to draw attention.
Wen Yufei was waiting, eyes wide behind his spectacles. "I reviewed the temple logs. The official who signed off on the sacrificial supplies... doesn't exist."
"What?" Ziyan demanded.
"The name used belongs to a scribe who died two years ago. It was a forged signature."
Ziyan's mind raced. "That means someone intercepted the offerings before they ever reached the Bureau."
"Or someone inside the Bureau let it happen," Li Qiang said grimly.
An hour later, Li Qiang returned with Zhang Jinrui.
Zhang's cloak was wet from rain. He stepped inside without ceremony and placed a folded parchment on the table.
"This was intercepted from a courier near the Temple Gate," he said. "He panicked and tried to burn it."
Ziyan opened the scroll. The ink was smeared, but the symbols were still visible—ritual instructions… and a coded phrase.
'Let the false fire burn. The girl sees, but too late.'
Her fingers tightened.
"This was meant for someone on the inside," she murmured. "Someone trying to direct the ritual itself."
Zhang crossed his arms. "The handwriting resembles that of one of the Empress's senior attendants. Someone close to the rites division."
Ziyan looked at him. "Then it is the Empress?"
Zhang didn't answer immediately. His gaze was heavy, unreadable.
"She may be behind it," he said, "but I've known her to cut snakes by letting them strike first. She may also be watching—to see who panics."
"Which is it?" Li Qiang asked coldly.
Zhang's voice was measured. "That's what I'm still trying to decide."
Later that night, Ziyan returned to her office to think in silence. Lian'er sat on the windowsill, knees drawn up, eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"They ruined your pretty boxes," she said softly. "The ones with songs and secrets."
Ziyan approached her gently. "How did you know that?"
Lian'er didn't answer right away. She stared into the sky.
"They're afraid of the fire," she whispered. "But not the kind that burns skin. The kind that remembers."
Ziyan crouched beside her. "What did you hear, Lian'er?"
The girl tilted her head, thoughtful. "Someone said… 'Let the phoenix carry the blame. That way, when it burns, no one asks who lit the kindling.'"
Ziyan's blood chilled.
"Who said that?"
Lian'er frowned. "I don't know. But he wore boots with lion stitching. Not a courtier. A soldier."
A pause.
Ziyan rose slowly, her heart pounding.
Zhang Jinrui's boots bore lion stitching.
The next morning, just before dawn, Ziyan stood in the offering hall, alone.
All the crates had been rechecked. The tainted ones removed. The altar cloths repaired.
But something still felt wrong.
The silence was too heavy. The shadows too still.
She looked up at the ceremonial pillars. One bore a crack that hadn't been there the day before.
She stared.
A piece of folded paper had been pressed between the beam and the joint.
She climbed the steps, pried it loose, and unfolded it.
It was a list of names.
High nobles. Generals. Ministers.
At the bottom—barely legible—was a single line:
Those to be watched during the Offering. One will fall.
Ziyan descended slowly, her breath tight in her chest.
The fire hadn't been lit yet.
But the ashes were already being arranged.