The drums began just after dawn, low and slow.
Their echo rippled through the courtyards of the Imperial Temple, through colonnades draped in crimson silk, through ranks of bowed courtiers arranged like calligraphy beneath the spring sun. The air was perfumed with sandalwood, heavy with reverence—and danger.
Ziyan stood before the altar with her hands clasped, her robes plain but precise. Behind her, Lianhua and Li Qiang stood like shadows, each watching a different side of the crowd. One noble sneezed delicately behind a fan. Another whispered too loudly to a neighbor. Even the birds kept their wings close today.
Wen Yufei stood beside the tribute crates, his posture perfect, his face unreadable.
Ziyan's father, Minister Li, observed from behind the ring of ministers. He neither blinked nor spoke, but Ziyan could feel his attention like the point of a needle pressed lightly to her spine.
Atop the ceremonial dais, the Emperor sat beneath a canopy of dragon embroidery. His expression was cool as carved jade. The Empress sat at his side, veiled in pale gold, her face serene behind the shimmer of silk. Around them sat the old guard of the court—noble houses, war generals, distant princes—each more dangerous in silence than in speech.
A priest stepped forward and unrolled the ceremonial scroll.
"On this day, under the light of Heaven and before the eyes of Earth, we offer grain and tribute to seal the season, to pray for peace, and to bind what cracks unseen."
Ziyan stepped forward and raised her hands.
The offering tray had been changed. The original crates—tainted and rotting—were gone, hidden before dawn. In their place rested something… stranger.
The grain was not wheat, nor rice, nor millet.
It was small and dark, almost black, but with a sheen like oil beneath the sun. Some had begun to sprout, not with shoots—but with pale silver roots curling inward.
The murmurs began instantly.
The Emperor raised a single hand. "Minister Li Ziyan," he said. "What is this crop?"
Ziyan bowed low, her voice steady.
"It is not part of our traditional offerings, no. But it is real. This is what was left of our tribute—after others had corrupted it. I bring this not to replace the truth, but to reveal it."
A noble in blue stood suddenly.
"This is treason! To defile the sacred offering with foreign seed? What next—offer blood?"
Another voice: "She should be removed from her post immediately!"
Then a third: "She mocks the rites! This is grounds for execution!"
Li Qiang shifted behind her, hand on his blade. Lianhua gritted her teeth, eyes flashing to the edge of the courtyard where the guards were already beginning to stir.
Ziyan stepped forward.
"This crop is not a lie. It was found in the same crates meant for the Spring Offering. But it is not the taint. It is what survived the rot. The seed left behind. What grew from silence."
Gasps. A few ministers leaned forward.
Ziyan turned to face them fully.
"You call this foreign. Unholy. But it grew from the same soil as our millet—fed by the same rain. And yet, you reject it not because it is false, but because it reminds you of what we've allowed to fester in our Empire."
A long silence.
Then a noble barked, "Enough!"
The guards moved.
But before the order could fall, the Empress lifted a single hand.
Every motion halted.
She rose slowly, her voice soft but edged with iron.
"The Spring Offering shall proceed."
The Emperor turned to her, brows furrowed.
She added, calmly, "Let the heavens decide the merit of her truth. If the gods reject it, they will show us."
A priest bowed deeply. "As Her Majesty commands."
Reluctantly, the guards stepped back.
Ziyan bowed again, but she could feel the fury behind her. She had survived—but only barely. The court's silence was no longer neutrality. It was a sharpening blade.
As the incense was lit and the drums resumed, the murmurs beneath the canopy grew louder.
"…She should have died right there."
"…This was the Empress's doing, no doubt."
"…Watch the assistant. The quiet one. He's always there."
Ziyan turned slightly toward Wen Yufei. He was still standing by the crates, hands folded, face calm.
Too calm.
Behind her, Lianhua whispered, "They're watching him."
Li Qiang nodded. "And he knows."
The offering concluded as the sun reached its peak.
The crowd began to disperse. The courtiers left in tight groups, whispering behind sleeves, eyes darting toward Ziyan's retreating figure.
Minister Li remained seated among the ministers, his hands steepled.
He did not speak.
He did not follow.
That night, back at the teahouse, Lianhua poured tea in silence.
Ziyan sat by the open window, the fan with the strange poem resting on her lap.
Lian'er was asleep, curled beside a half-finished poem of her own. Her soft breathing was the only sound in the room.
Li Qiang returned from his patrol, a scroll tucked under his sleeve.
"There was movement in the Northern Archives," he said. "Someone accessed the ritual logs."
"Who?" Ziyan asked.
But before he could answer, Wen Yufei appeared in the doorway.
He bowed deeply, then stepped forward.
"I need to speak to you," he said.
Ziyan nodded slowly. "Of course."
But before he could say another word—he froze.
Something—or someone—grabbed him from behind the screen.
A blade gleamed.
Li Qiang surged forward.
Ziyan stood.
The screen shattered.