The Grand Secretariat's hall was dressed in gold and cinnabar, lantern light glinting off porcelain and lacquer like fire on still water. Music floated through the air — the kind played more for ceremony than joy — and the air smelled faintly of osmanthus wine.
Li Ziyan entered through the side gate, her twilight-blue robes brushing against the polished floor. She wore no jewels beyond a single hairpin of worked silver. Her eyes swept the room once, marking ministers, envoys, and those who called themselves "friends" but never failed to watch her too closely.
From the dais, Grand Secretariat Zhou rose, arms wide. "Minister Li Ziyan — the phoenix of our court — has graced us tonight."
Polite applause followed. Some hands clapped slower than others.
Ziyan bowed, the picture of humility, and allowed herself to be led to a place near the West Pavilion doors — exactly where she wanted to be.
Across the room, Lianhua was already surrounded by a small circle of courtiers. She laughed lightly at something a junior scribe said, but her eyes — when they met Ziyan's — were unreadable.
Zhang Jinrui stood near the colonnade, pretending to study the musicians, while Li Qiang took a seat two tables away, close enough to move but far enough to appear indifferent. Wen Yufei had not yet arrived.
The banquet began as all such nights did — wine poured in shallow cups, words poured in shallow promises. Ziyan spoke little, instead letting the tide of conversation wash past her, catching only the currents that mattered.
When the first round of dishes was cleared, she made her move.
"Such a night for harmony," she said lightly to the minister beside her. "One could almost forget the tensions between Qi and Xia."
The man smiled uneasily. "Almost."
Ziyan's lips curved faintly. "It is fortunate, then, that the last of An Xiu's letters remain safe in the West Pavilion. It would be a tragedy for them to be… misplaced."
Her words were not loud — but loud enough. She felt them ripple outward through the tables, whispered from mouth to ear like smoke curling through lattice.
She sipped her wine.
Halfway through the third course, Jinrui shifted his stance — the signal.
A shadow had detached itself from the far column and was moving toward the West Pavilion's side doors, slow and patient, as if drawn by inevitability. The figure wore the plain robes of a palace attendant, head bowed.
Ziyan's fingers tightened around her cup.
Another signal from Li Qiang — a tap of two fingers against his thigh. Not alone.
Indeed, the shadow was joined by another — smaller, lighter of step — who glanced once toward the dais before slipping into the darkness beyond the doors.
From where she sat, Ziyan could not see their faces. But she saw the faint sway of a hair ornament catching lantern light — the kind not worn by common attendants.
Her eyes narrowed.
She did not move. Not yet.
In the West Pavilion, the chest sat precisely where she had said it would, guarded only by a single folded screen and the illusion of neglect. Inside, only blank parchment waited, bound with the real seal.
It took less than the span of a shallow breath before the first shadow reached for it. The second figure lingered near the doorway, watching — no, listening — for the approach of others.
Jinrui's men closed in from the courtyard side, silent as frost settling on grass.
Then — a thud, a muffled curse, and the chest was lifted.
By the time the banquet's music faltered — the cue that something was amiss — Ziyan was already rising.
But she did not rush to the Pavilion. She did not need to.
Instead, she turned to Grand Secretariat Zhou, her voice calm enough to still the nearest tables.
"It seems," she said, "that harmony does not keep all hands from reaching where they should not."
Zhou blanched. "Minister Li—"
Her eyes shifted toward the Pavilion doors just as Jinrui's men emerged, dragging the two intruders between them.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
The first figure — the one who had lifted the chest — wore a hood that hid his face. But the second's head covering had been knocked loose in the struggle. Dark hair spilled out, pins askew, and her gaze met Ziyan's for a fraction too long before dropping.
Ziyan's expression did not change. "Bring them forward."
The hooded one was forced to kneel. The second followed, head lowered.
The ministers murmured, some in outrage, some in fascination.
Ziyan said nothing more. Not here. Not yet.
She only ordered the chest opened, revealing the blank parchment within.
"A shame," she said softly, "that what you sought was nothing."
The intruders were taken away. The banquet limped on, the wine tasting thinner now, the music uncertain.
Later, as the lanterns burned low and the guests began to drift away, Wen Yufei appeared at the edge of the courtyard. His step was quiet, his face unreadable.
He moved not toward Ziyan, but toward the colonnade where Minister Li stood alone, watching the night sky.
They spoke in low tones, their words swallowed by the rustle of the bamboo beyond the walls.
But once — only once — Ziyan caught the sound of her father's voice carried on the wind.
"…you know why you must stay hidden. If she learns the truth now, neither of us will survive what comes next."
Wen Yufei's reply was too soft to hear.
Minister Li's final words, however, reached her like the distant crack of thunder.
"Even a phoenix's wings can be broken before it takes flight."
And then they were gone, swallowed by the shadowed corridors of the palace.