In the eastern wing of the palace, where the wind barely stirred the gauze curtains, time moved differently. Here, minutes were longer than hours, and silence had weight. It settled over the rooms like mist.
Li Ziyan did not pace. She waited.
She sat by the window with a brush in her hand, but the inkstone had dried. She hadn't written anything since the second day, only traced the edge of her sleeve with thoughtful fingers. A single word echoed beneath her breath when she blinked:
Stillness.
Li Qiang, seated across the chamber, hadn't spoken in a while either. The guards had been rotated again. The servants who brought their food had changed faces twice.
But that wasn't what either of them watched.
They were waiting for a shadow to return. Or a message. Or nothing.
A pot of jasmine tea sat cooling between them. Untouched.
"I dreamt," Ziyan said at last, her voice soft, "that we stood in a garden. The trees were red. The sky was white."
Li Qiang glanced at her. "Was it peaceful?"
"No." Her lips quirked faintly. "But it was still."
He nodded. "The kind of stillness before something moves."
The words lingered. Neither one looked at the guards stationed beyond the silk screen. They both knew every sound here could be carried elsewhere.
What they didn't say was this: they knew what had happened to Wen Yufei. The rest of the palace thought him missing, perhaps a traitor. But Ziyan had seen the blade. Had seen the shift behind the screen. She and Li Qiang had moved quickly that night, covering more than they revealed. His fate was still unknown — but they knew enough to keep silent.
Now they waited.
Elsewhere in the city, Lianhua pressed her hands into the edge of a temple wall, breath sharp in her chest.
The trail had gone cold.
For days, she had followed Wen's cipher, cross-referencing merchant receipts and movement ledgers smuggled through disbanded grain offices. She had chased whispers in the Silk Ward, bribed a retired archivist, and even snuck through one of Zhao's old couriers' routes.
And still… nothing.
Wen Yufei's path had vanished like steam.
She sat down on a mossy step behind a disused shrine, her face tilted up to the early evening light. For once, she looked tired. Not frustrated. Just quiet. As though she, too, was listening to something deeper than footsteps.
Behind her, the bamboo stirred.
A figure appeared.
Wei.
He stepped from the trees without ceremony, but not without purpose. His eyes took in her position, her still hands, the scroll tucked into her lap — worn and meaningless now.
"You look calm," he said.
"I've failed."
"No," he said. "You stopped rushing."
Lianhua blinked at him.
He crouched beside her, producing a half-burned seal and an unmarked courier tag. "You missed something. The old route didn't vanish. It was rerouted through the shrine tunnels. They're still using them."
Her eyes widened, breath catching. "You're sure?"
"I was trained to spot quiet things," he said. "This one was almost too quiet."
She smiled for the first time in days. "You're late."
"You were early," he replied.
They stood together, the scroll now open once more. A new map drawn in charcoal. A new name.
They would deliver it tomorrow. Just in time.
Back in the Court of Eastern Records, Ziyan poured a fresh cup of tea.
Li Qiang finally reached for his.
"They think we're afraid," he said.
"I hope so," Ziyan murmured. "Fearful enemies make clumsy moves."
He watched her, thoughtful. "You don't look worried."
"I'm not." She tapped her fan against the table lightly. "There's a kind of power in waiting. The nobles have spoken. The Empress has spoken. Now the pieces shift. The only thing left…" She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "…is timing."
A faint knock sounded.
One of Prince Ning's couriers bowed low and handed over a summons. The seal was unbroken, but they knew what it said.
Tomorrow. Mid-morning. The Hall of Clear Judgement.
The third day.
Ziyan set the scroll aside without opening it.
The sun rose pale and gray the next morning.
Ziyan's robes were simple. Her hair was pinned in a clean coil, held by a single iron pin. No gold. No paint. Only presence.
Li Qiang wore his formal uniform, crisp and silent, standing slightly behind her left shoulder as they entered the grand hall.
Prince Ning waited at the center dais, already flanked by advisors and note-takers. The court was quieter than usual — not subdued, but expectant.
"You stand accused of subverting a sacred ritual," Prince Ning said calmly, "of mishandling imperial trust, and of causing political unrest. If no defense is presented today, we move to sentencing."
Before Ziyan could speak, the court doors opened again.
Lianhua entered, scroll in hand. Wei followed — not with ceremony, but as a witness.
"This was recovered near the shrine complex," Lianhua said clearly. "From the last grain shipment before the Spring Offering. The seal is Zhao's. The contents link directly to forged ledgers and a separate trail of stolen tribute."
Prince Ning took the scroll without speaking. His brows furrowed as he read.
"This trail was hidden," Wei added. "And someone wanted it erased. Permanently."
"And what of Wen Yufei?" a minister asked suddenly. "Has he been found?"
Lianhua hesitated. Ziyan stepped forward.
"He has not reappeared," she said, voice steady. "But this scroll, and the leads he uncovered, prove one thing — he was investigating something greater than we knew. And someone wanted him silenced."
The room was silent.
Prince Ning finally rolled the scroll closed.
"Minister Li," he said. "You remain under court watch, but your suspension is lifted. For now."
He turned to Lianhua. "You are to assist in gathering more evidence. Quietly."
A flicker passed his face, but he offered no further resistance. The court would settle — for now.
As they exited into the morning light, Li Qiang whispered, "We're not out."
"No," Ziyan agreed. "But the wind has changed."
The stillness was over.
Now came the stirrings of war.