The morning sun had not yet crested the palace walls when the imperial courier arrived at the Court of Eastern Records.
Ziyan sat quietly at her desk, the ink in her brush still drying on a half-finished report. The knock was soft, ceremonial, and without urgency—yet her phoenix mark tingled beneath her sleeve like a silent warning.
A eunuch stepped in and bowed low. "Minister Li Ziyan. His Majesty's edict."
Ziyan rose. She accepted the scroll with both hands. The red ribbon bore the seal of the Emperor himself—five-clawed dragon in gold wax, unbroken.
She unrolled it without ceremony.
Her eyes moved quickly, trained by years of coded reports and legal script. But this wasn't a reprimand.
It was a promotion.
"By order of the Son of Heaven," it read, "Li Ziyan is hereby appointed as Vice Minister of Rites, with full access to imperial records and jurisdiction over ceremonial protocols of state importance."
A pause.
"…In recognition of services rendered in the apprehension of traitorous elements, and the restoration of balance to the Spring Offering."
Ziyan read it twice. Her heart didn't lift. Her pulse didn't quicken.
This was no reward.
It was a leash.
She turned to the eunuch. "Does the Emperor wish to see me?"
"Not today, my lady. He said only this—'Let the phoenix rise in full view of the court. Wings can be watched more easily in daylight.'"
Ziyan smiled faintly. "Of course."
The eunuch bowed and left.
Moments later, another knock—heavier, slower.
She knew that rhythm. She hadn't heard it in years.
Minister Li entered without waiting for permission. He wore his usual brown court robes, not the emerald silks of celebration, and yet his presence filled the room as if he stood atop a stage.
Father and daughter regarded each other in silence.
"You've received the Emperor's edict," he said at last.
"Yes."
"He means to use you. And protect you. The two are never far apart."
Ziyan said nothing. Her fingers curled around the scroll.
Minister Li approached the side table and poured himself tea as if he owned the room. Perhaps, in some ways, he always had.
"I once told you," he said quietly, "that surviving in court meant letting others underestimate you. It's no longer an option. Your wings are too visible now."
Ziyan's lips tightened. "Then perhaps it is time they learned what I'm capable of."
Minister Li looked at her long, as if measuring something behind her eyes. Then, he reached into his sleeve and retrieved a small ivory token.
"The family banquet is tonight," he said. "Your grandmother's eightieth. You've been absent long enough."
Ziyan blinked. "You want me to come?"
"You're family," he said. "That has never changed. You may have embarrassed the court, humiliated noble sons, and turned the Empress's hand—but you are still my daughter."
She stared at the token in his hand. The Li family seal—unmarked, untarnished.
He continued, almost idly, "It would be… impolite to miss such an event. Especially with so many ministers attending. It would also be a shame if certain… old secrets came to light in your absence."
Her gaze sharpened. "What secrets?"
He gave her a look she remembered from childhood—faintly amused, vaguely threatening.
"Come to the banquet," he said. "You'll understand more. Bring no guards. Only your brush."
He set the token on her table and turned to go.
At the doorway, he paused.
"Ziyan," he said without looking back. "Be careful. A phoenix's fire can light the way… or burn the forest to ash."
Then he was gone.
That evening, as the sun dipped low over the tiled roofs of the capital, Ziyan stood in the mirror's reflection, adjusting her robes.
They were not her usual court attire. These were simpler—soft twilight blue, patterned only with a phoenix feather embroidered near the hem. Lianhua stood behind her, adjusting the pins in her hair.
"You're going?" she asked softly.
Ziyan nodded.
"Are you sure it's safe?"
"No," Ziyan replied. "But nothing ever is."
Behind them, Li Qiang sharpened his dagger with a whetstone, his expression unreadable.
"I should follow."
"No," Ziyan said. "He asked for no guards. And if something happens to me, you must continue what we started."
He paused. "We started this together."
Ziyan turned. "Then be ready. Watch from a distance if you must. But don't interfere unless—"
"Unless you burn," he said.
Ziyan smiled faintly.
"Yes."
The Li family estate loomed like a second palace on the western edge of the capital, hidden behind layers of bamboo and lacquered stone walls. Lanterns were strung like stars through the trees, casting gentle light on the courtyard where nobles laughed and sipped plum wine.
Ziyan entered alone.
Heads turned. Whispers flew.
"…She dares show her face here…"
"…The Emperor's favorite now, is she?"
"…Watch her. The old minister always keeps his best pieces for the endgame."
Her grandmother sat at the center of the banquet on a raised dais, flanked by sons and daughters and grandchildren she barely acknowledged. Her skin was weathered but her eyes sharp.
Ziyan bowed deeply.
"Happy birthday, Grandmother."
The old woman studied her, then let out a soft snort.
"Still walking like a minister. Good. I hate broken things."
Ziyan was led to a quieter corner near a garden rockery. There, Minister Li joined her with two cups of wine and a folding fan he tapped against his palm.
"You always hated parties," he said.
"You always used them."
He chuckled.
"You think I'm the villain, don't you?"
"I think you're the storm before the flood," she said. "And you know what's coming."
He handed her the cup.
"To survival, then."
She didn't drink.
Instead, she leaned close.
"Wen Yufei said something," she whispered. "That he's hiding… because of you."
Her father's eyes flickered.
"And what did he mean by that?"
"You tell me."
He studied her. "If I tell you now, you'll act too soon. You'll draw the blade before the scabbard is ready."
"Then give me something. One name. One reason."
He looked away.
"Yu Haoxian," he said. "Lord Yu. The Empress wanted him dead. I made sure the evidence led him back into court, so the Emperor would deal with it personally. But Lord Yu wasn't working alone."
Ziyan froze.
"Who?"
Her father looked back at her, and for the first time, his voice carried something other than calculation.
Sadness.
"Someone you trust."
He rose.
"You have your edict. Your title. And your enemies. Now earn your allies. The war is coming. But so is something older."
He looked at her once more.
"Make sure you know which fire to light when the sky turns."
Then he left her alone beneath the plum trees, the wine untouched in her hands, and the phoenix mark beneath her sleeve suddenly warm again—watchful.