The rain had ceased by the time the palace lamps were lit, but the air remained heavy, thick with the scent of wet stone and pine. Li Ziyan stood in her study, brush poised over a sheet of paper. The words she wrote were deliberate and damning, the strokes slightly uneven as if hurried by fear — an illusion she intended.
When she was finished, the letter looked like the sort of thing meant to be hidden in the deepest part of a minister's desk, not left carelessly within reach. It named Xia, spoke of concessions, and bore a fabricated urgency that could tempt even the most cautious hand.
She blotted the ink, folded the letter, and pressed it with the seal of Xia — a wax mark dull and old, pilfered from another time. Then she placed it into a plain wooden coffer and locked it with a simple clasp.
Li Qiang stepped forward. "Shall I take it to the Pavilion?"
"Before the moon rises," Ziyan replied. "It must look as though it's been there for some time — long enough to tempt, not long enough to be guarded too heavily."
He nodded, but his eyes flicked to the corner of the room, where Lianhua stood. She had said little all evening, her expression calm, almost serene.
"You've gone to a great deal of trouble for a scrap of paper," Lianhua said, tone almost teasing.
Ziyan met her gaze. "Paper burns. Names do not."
They said no more.
By the time the coffer was placed in the West Pavilion, the palace was sinking into its nocturnal quiet. Servants moved like drifting shadows, guards leaned on halberds, their eyes dull from routine. Ziyan had chosen the Pavilion for a reason — its location was close enough to the Hall of Rites to be respectable, yet far enough that night watch was more ceremonial than vigilant.
Jinrui's men were already in position, some in plain sight, others concealed behind carved screens and within the shadowed verandas. The outer gardens were patrolled irregularly — a gap any thief would note.
Ziyan stood on the upper gallery overlooking the Pavilion. She had dressed in muted grey, her hair bound simply, a minister observing her court's quiet. Every so often she saw a flicker of movement — a signal from Jinrui or Li Qiang as they confirmed the watchers were in place.
The first hour passed in silence but for the gentle tapping of rainwater dripping from the eaves.
In the second hour, the air shifted. A faint, almost imperceptible rustle came from the garden's edge. Ziyan's eyes narrowed. Through the latticework, she saw a shadow detach from the darker bulk of the trees and slide toward the Pavilion with deliberate slowness.
She watched, measuring each step. The intruder kept to the gaps between lamplight, pausing whenever a patrolling guard passed.
Jinrui's men tensed, but Ziyan's hand gesture held them still.
The figure reached the Pavilion, glanced around once, then moved toward the coffer.
Another shadow appeared behind the first. Smaller, lighter on its feet, this one did not approach the coffer directly, but lingered by the Pavilion's side door, as though to keep watch.
The two exchanged no words, but their timing was too precise to be unplanned.
The watcher shifted, and in that moment a sliver of lamplight caught on something — a pale glint near the temple, the curve of a hair ornament.
Ziyan's breath stilled.
Not yet, she told herself. Proof before the blade.
The first figure bent to the coffer. Hands moved to the clasp.
Ziyan signaled.
Jinrui's men moved like water breaking a still pond — sudden, silent, all at once. The intruder at the coffer lunged away but was blocked by two men from the left. The watcher at the side door bolted, light and quick, almost evading capture until Li Qiang himself stepped from the shadows, cutting off the escape.
The struggle was brief but not quiet. The coffer slid across the polished floor, its seal still unbroken.
Ziyan descended from the gallery, each step measured, her eyes never leaving the smaller figure now held between two guards.
The hood was pulled back.
Lianhua.
For a heartbeat, the night seemed to contract around the name. Her hair was damp from the mist, her breathing quick, but her expression was calm — too calm.
"You," Ziyan said quietly.
Lianhua's gaze met hers without flinching. "I came for the letter before someone else could."
"You knew where it was."
"I knew what it could do," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with something unreadable. "And I could not let it fall into their hands."
Ziyan stood close enough now to see the drops of rain clinging to her lashes. "You could have told me."
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
Lianhua's eyes softened, almost sorrowful. "Because if I did, you'd see the rest."
The guards looked from one woman to the other, uncertain. Ziyan waved them back.
"Take her to the inner rooms," she ordered, her tone giving nothing away. "And speak of this to no one."
As they led Lianhua away, she glanced back once — not in fear, nor in guilt, but with a lingering sadness that struck deeper than any open betrayal.
Ziyan watched her go, the coffer still sitting where it had slid to a stop, its contents untouched.
The trap had worked.
But the catch was not as simple as she had expected.