In the heart of the Eastern Capital, dusk painted the sky in hues of flame and violet. Yet in the quiet teahouse tucked behind the Scholars' Quarter, Wei's expression was far from tranquil. A coded scroll lay half-unfurled beside him, its wax seal snapped like a bone under pressure. He reread the markings thrice, though he needed no reminder.
One hundred thousand men.
Xia's western legions, once scattered across garrison outposts, had converged in secret. They now sat stationed at the Qi border like wolves behind tall grass—silent, waiting.
And Qi's best divisions, under directives influenced by the late Grand Commandant Zhao, were positioned along the eastern sea frontier. A strategic blunder—if it had been an error at all.
Wei stood abruptly, fingers tightening over the scroll. "I must speak to Li Ziyan. At once."
A messenger servant nearby blinked. "My lord, the palace—"
"Send word. I will go myself."
He moved swiftly, weaving through lantern-lit streets, until the Imperial Gate loomed before him. Crimson banners hung limp in the still evening air, and the guards at the outer threshold stood in doubled ranks, halberds crossed.
"Halt. The palace is under restricted order." The captain stepped forward. "No outside audiences allowed. No visitors permitted past the fifth corridor—not even for Minister Li."
Wei's brow creased. "Then send word to her. Tell her Xia is preparing for war—"
"No messages may pass, sir," the captain replied curtly. "The order came this morning. After the Offering Incident."
Wei stared at the guards, frustration simmering beneath his calm. There was no way through.
So he stepped back into the shadows, disappearing without further word—just as he had learned in Xia's coldest courts. But the message would have to wait. And time, he knew, was running thin.
Inside the palace, the Hall of Clear Judgement was bathed in the pale light of polished lanterns. The painted beams, carved with phoenixes and chrysanthemums, did little to soften the air—taut with accusation.
Li Ziyan knelt in the center of the chamber, wrists unbound but posture upright, her gaze cool even as murmurs echoed against marble.
Zhang Jinrui stood to one side, arms folded behind his back. His robes were dark, unadorned by rank, but the officers who watched him knew his name well. He was the son of the old Minister of War, the "Frontier Wolf" whose name still haunted some nobles' dreams. He had no title now, but power moved with him.
Ziyan's voice cut through the murmurs. "If this is to be a tribunal, then state your charges. I do not kneel for shadows."
An old minister sneered from his place along the wall. "A woman of low birth, once exiled, now dares to mock court tradition?"
"Enough," came a new voice, smooth as lacquer and twice as cold.
Prince Ning entered with the soft step of a seasoned predator. Fourth brother to the Emperor, he had long kept to his own territories—but when court blood was spilled, the Emperor called for eyes he trusted.
The chamber bowed.
Zhang Jinrui inclined his head. "Your Highness."
"General Zhang." Ning's eyes scanned the room, then settled on Ziyan. "So this is the girl they say nearly disgraced the Spring Offering?"
"She preserved it," Jinrui said. "And exposed a sabotage meant to discredit her."
Prince Ning smiled without warmth. "And yet… she caused chaos at our sacred Spring Offering Festival, sacrificial grain was replaced with a crop no one had seen before. A strange way to honor Heaven."
Ziyan did not flinch. "Because Heaven no longer listens to lies, Your Highness."
A flicker passed through the Prince's expression—interest, maybe. Or something colder.
"Sergeant Li Qiang," Ning continued, turning slightly. "You were absent from your post when the incident occurred."
Li Qiang, standing to one side in full court armor, nodded once. "I was pursuing a lead related to the grain sabotage. My actions were improper, but intentional."
"Improper indeed," Ning said smoothly. "A court official, off duty, unsanctioned… And yet the noble sons still accuse you of collusion."
Zhang Jinrui's voice cut in. "I interrogated the grain handlers. The crop was switched under false orders. The signatures were forgeries."
"And do you know who forged them?"
"No," Jinrui said. "But my men are investigating." He paused. "We believe the truth is close."
Prince Ning studied him. "You speak with certainty, General."
"I speak only what I know."
There was silence. Then Ziyan's voice again, soft but clear.
"Lianhua is no longer at the palace," she said. "But I believe her actions in the next day will illuminate everything we're missing."
Prince Ning raised an eyebrow. "A courtesan accountant is your key witness?"
"She's not a courtesan," Ziyan replied. "Not anymore."
The older ministers laughed quietly, but Ning did not. He watched Ziyan with the same look he might give a caged hawk—impressed, wary.
Then his gaze shifted. "Very well. You have 3 days. Until further evidence arises, you remain under palace supervision. You will not leave the Court of Eastern Records without written approval. You will speak to no outsiders, and answer when summoned."
"And if I refuse?" Ziyan asked.
"You won't," Ning said. "Because you're not a fool. And fools don't survive long in this palace."
The chamber began to empty, ministers leaving in murmurs and silent glances.
Zhang Jinrui walked beside Ziyan as she was escorted out, his voice low.
"Your boldness will win you allies. And enemies."
"I've made both before," Ziyan replied. "But something's shifting. This isn't just about grain or offerings anymore."
He nodded. "I know."
"Why are you helping me, General?" she asked.
He stopped walking. "Because something's broken in this Empire," he said finally. "And you're one of the few who knows how deep the cracks go."
As she stepped into the corridor, Ziyan's thoughts turned to Wei—still absent, still silent. And to Lianhua, far from the palace.
The noose was tightening.
And somewhere beyond the court walls, 100,000 soldiers waited for war.