The sun filtered dimly through the lattice screens of the Eastern Records Courtyard. For three days now, Li Ziyan and Li Qiang had been confined within its high vermilion walls — house arrest, the polite name for gilded imprisonment. Two imperial guards stood at the inner gate. A third lingered in the shadows beyond the plum trees, pretending not to listen.
Ziyan sat beneath the veranda, hands resting over a scroll she had not opened. Her eyes tracked the blossoms drifting from above—white petals like falling ash.
Li Qiang knelt by the garden stones, sharpening a small dagger with measured, quiet strokes. He didn't speak. Not yet. They couldn't afford to speak carelessly, not even here. Not with ears in the walls and birds that never blinked.
Ziyan finally broke the silence. "We have three days left," she murmured.
Li Qiang gave a subtle nod. "Then we move before the second day ends."
"They'll be watching us more closely after the tribunal," she added. "Prince Ning's not like the others. He doesn't underestimate people—he waits for them to underestimate him."
Li Qiang sheathed the blade. "Then we'll give them what they expect. Caution. Hesitation. Doubt."
Ziyan didn't smile, but something in her shoulders eased. She leaned forward slightly, brushing her fingers against a line in the gravel garden.
"They still think we're unsure of what happened to Wen Yufei."
Li Qiang's jaw tightened. "Good. Let them think it."
Outside, a bird shrieked once—sharp, unnatural. Li Qiang glanced up and caught Ziyan's eye. Both of them knew that call. Wei had sent the signal.
Ziyan stood, slow and deliberate, and walked to the scroll table inside. She took her inkbrush, dipped it once, and wrote a single character: 静—stillness. She let the ink bleed slightly at the edges. A message.
Li Qiang joined her and unfolded a map of the palace, freshly drawn. He tapped a corridor in the northern archives. "If the reports are right, Lianhua will make her move through here. The guard shifts change every quarter bell."
"She'll leave something behind," Ziyan whispered. "A proof."
They both knew the risk. Lianhua wasn't a fighter. Not in the usual sense. But she understood numbers—and people. If anyone could slip through court ledgers without being noticed, it was her.
Ziyan exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing the phoenix mark beneath her sleeve. It had not burned since the Offering. No visions. No whispers. Only silence. That, more than anything, unnerved her.
"She's late," Li Qiang said.
"She'll come."
They shared a look. No further words were needed.
At noon, an attendant brought their meal—plain rice, wilted greens, a bowl of weak tea. The woman bowed low, murmured nothing, and left. As she turned the corner, Ziyan stepped forward and lifted the tea bowl.
Inside, beneath the base, a slip of waxed parchment was pressed into the ceramic. She passed it to Li Qiang without a word.
He unrolled it with careful fingers. Just a single sentence.
He did not die. But neither is he safe.
Li Qiang's eyes darkened. "They know he's alive."
"No," Ziyan said softly. "They suspect. But they don't know we know."
Wen Yufei had vanished from his post after the Offering. The last they'd seen of him, a blade had lunged from behind the screen. Blood had sprayed. Li Qiang had struck down the attacker, but by then Wen was gone—dragged, wounded, or worse. His scent faded into the garden's northern wing. No body. No trail. Only an abandoned earring and the shredded remains of his scroll pouch.
"We have to act before the next Offering," Ziyan said.
Li Qiang looked at her. "You mean the Mid-Summer one?"
"No." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "The false one. The one they'll stage to bury us."
He stiffened. "That soon?"
She nodded. "We need to reveal the link between the corrupted grain, Zhao's faction, and the northern ritual logs before they erase the records completely."
"And the witness?" he asked.
Ziyan hesitated. "Lianhua will get us proof."
"And if she fails?"
Ziyan's lips thinned. "Then we use what we buried with Wen Yufei."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, coiled like a storm waiting behind cloud cover.
At dusk, the sky darkened faster than usual. A sudden wind blew through the courtyard, scattering petals across the gravel path. A guard outside shifted uncomfortably.
Ziyan turned to Li Qiang. "Ready the decoy."
He reached into a lacquered box beneath the table, retrieving a small scroll tube—unmarked, sealed in black wax. They had prepared it days ago, in the chaos after the Offering. Inside was a forged confession, complete with names, times, and symbols from Zhao's hidden network. It was a gamble—half truth, half trap.
"If anything happens to me," she said quietly, "send this to Prince Ning."
Li Qiang looked at her. "He won't believe it."
"No," Ziyan said. "But he'll believe why we had to send it."
That night, sleep came lightly, if at all. Ziyan sat by the paper window, watching shadows pass between lanterns. At some point, the wind shifted. The plum blossoms stopped falling. Even the guards quieted.
And somewhere, beyond the palace walls, the real pieces began to move.
In the garden, a nightbird sang. But it was off by a note.
Ziyan didn't react. She simply looked toward Li Qiang.
"She's in."
He nodded once, rising.
They had their proof. Now came the harder part.
Getting it out.